' 


PRIESTS  OF 
PROGRESS 


BY  G.  COLMORE     r 

Author  of  "The  Angel  and  the  Outcast,"  "A/Ladder 
of  Tears,"  "A.  Daughter  of  Music,"  etc. 


a  man         «  pran 
the  whole  world  and  lose  hit  own  soulf" 


NEW   YORK 
B.  W.  DODGE  &  COMPANY 

1908 


Copyrighted,  1908,  by 
B.  W.  DODGE  &  COMPANY 


(All  Rights  Reserved) 
Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


AUTHOR'S  NOTE 

THE  scientific  theories  and  methods  described,  discussed, 
or  alluded  to  in  this  book  are  real  theories  and  real 
methods.  I  have  ascribed  to  my  characters  certain  meth- 
ods of  investigation  recounted  in  scientific  journals  by  the 
men  who  have  followed  those  methods.  But  I  desire 
strongly  to  emphasise  the  fact  that  all  my  characters,  with- 
out exception,  as  also  their  circumstances  and  surround- 
ings, are  essentially  and  entirely  fictitious. 

An  appendix  at  the  end  of  the  book  contains  a  list  of 
authorities  for  the  actual  theories  and  practices  attributed 
to  those  characters. 

G.  COLMOEE 


2138696   ' 


TO  ALL  THOSE 

WHO  HAVE  HELPED  ME  IN"  THE 

WKITING   OF   THIS   BOOK  BY   THE   GIVING   OF 

KNOWLEDGE,  TIME,  OR  SYMPATHY 

THE  BOOK  IS  DEDICATED 


PRIESTS  OF  PROGRESS 


CHAPTER  I 

THREE  men  sat  round  the  fire,  smoking.  They  were 
young  men,  barely  out  of  the  period  of  studentship, 
beginning  the  world.  Before  one  lay  success;  before  an- 
other the  straight,  laborious  path  of  mediocrity;  the  life 
of  the  third  was  destined  to  be  the  voice  of  one  crying  in 
the  wilderness. 

The  room  in  which  they  sat  was  a  lodging-house  room, 
ugly  with  an  old-fashioned  solid  ugliness  which  has  now 
generally  given  way  to  the  more  meretricious  demerits  of 
modern  invention.  The  furniture  was  of  mahogany,  the 
chairs  and  tables  upholstered  in  horsehair;  the  wall- 
paper was  of  a  nondescript  shade  approaching,  perhaps, 
nearer  to  brown  than  to  any  other  colour;  the  curtains 
were  of  that  terrible  green  which  absorbs  the  light  with- 
out resting  the  eye;  the  carpet  was  thick  enough  to  hold 
vast  accumulations  of  dust.  The  inevitable  antimacassar 
of  course  was  there,  crocheted  in  cotton,  knitted  in  wool, 
straightened  out  carefully  each  morning,  to  be  crumpled 
up  into  balls  or  cast  into  corners  ere  the  day  was  done; 
invariably,  however,  to  survive  contumely.  For  Mrs. 
Deane  could  not  bring  herself  to  denude  her  apartments 
of  all  elegance.  "Young  gentlemen  will  be  young  gentle- 
men"  was  all  she  said  when,  each  morning,  desecration 

5 


6  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

met  her  eye;  and  as  the  antimacassars  were  of  stalwart 
fibre,  and  the  delinquent  grew  daily  older,  she  replaced 
them  regularly  with  the  persevering  hope  of  the  proverbial 
spider. 

The  more  particular  in  this  respect  was  she,  inasmuch 
as  the  wax  fruit,  the  shells,  and  the  ornament  from  her 
own  wedding  cake,  with  its  shielding  glass  case,  had  been 
resolutely  banished  from  the  mantelpiece.  Percy  Burdon 
had  impressed  upon  her  that  he  was  afraid  of  breaking 
them;  and  the  black  marble  shelf  was  now  given  up  to 
pipes,  tobacco  jars,  and  photographs— chiefly  of  young 
women  in  tights;  for  Percy  was  at  the  stage  of  affecting 
the  Gaiety  Theatre,  and  his  ideal  of  womanhood  was 
divided  between  the  dancing  girl  and  his  cousin,  Violet 
Lowther.  The  cousin's  photograph  was  on  the  mantel- 
piece, too,  in  the  centre,  and  Sidney  Gale's  eyes  rested  on 
it  as  he  smoked. 

"Who's  that?"  he  asked  presently,  pointing  a  pipe  at 
it,  "the  girl  with  all  her  clothes  on?" 

"Oh,  that's  my  cousin  David — Miss  Lowther." 

"David?    What  an  odd " 

"Oh,  she  wasn't  christened  that;  Violet's  her  proper 
name.  But  when  she  was  a  little  bit  of  a  thing  she  was 
discovered  in  the  act  of  defying  a  bull  with  a  catapult. 
She  was  dubbed  David  on  the  spot,  and  the  name  stuck  to 
her.  None  of  her  own  people  ever  call  her  anything  else." 

"Is  that  the  great  Dr.  Lowther?"  asked  Edgar  Hall. 

Burdon  nodded,  trying  to  appear  unconscious  of  the 
distinction  conferred  by  relationship  with  a  man  in  the 
forefront  of  medical  science. 

Hall's  manner  took  on  a  momentary  shade  of  deference. 
"I  had  no  idea  he  was  your  uncle,"  he  said.  "What 
luck  some  people  have!" 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  % 

"What  do  you  mean  by  luck?  I've  never  scored  by 
being  bis  nephew  that  I  can  see." 

"Perhaps  not,  because  you're  a  rotter.  Why,  man,  if 
I  were  his  nephew,  I'd  study  under  him." 

"Don't  take  understudies." 

"He'd  take  me.    Besides,  he  must  have  assistants.*' 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so;  oh,  yes,  of  course.  But  Lord!  if 
you're  under  Uncle  Bernard,  you're  so  very  much  under; 
he's  sitting  on  you  all  the  time." 

Hall  cast  a  contemptuous  glance  at  the  speaker,  and  re- 
filled his  pipe  in  silence. 

The  three  young  men  were  friends  of  circumstance; 
they  had  been  at  the  same  public  school,  had  gone  through 
the  same  medical  course,  were  now  starting  in  the  same 
profession.  Hall  and  Burdon,  moreover,  had  been  at 
Cambridge  together.  Gale  was  an  Oxford  man;  but  his 
family  and  Hall's  were  acquainted,  and  they  met  at  each 
other's  houses. 

"Oh,  by  the  way,"  said  Gale,  "I  ran  up  against  Jimmy 
Coles  as  I  came  along,  swelled  visibly  with  satisfaction. 
'Hulloa,  old  man,'  said  I,  'what's  up?  You  look  as  if 
you'd  come  into  a  fortune.'  'So  I  have,'  said  he,  and — 
he's  going  to  be  married." 

"Good  for  Jimmy !"  said  Burdon. 

"Infernal  ass  !"  said  Hall. 

"What's  ass  about  it?" 

"To  go  and  saddle  yourself  with  a  wife  before  you've 
got  a  practice!  Even  if  a  man  had  a  private  fortune, 
which  James  hasn't " 

"No ;  but  I  fancy  she  has,  from  what  he  said." 

"Had  a  private  fortune,"  continued  Hall  imperturbably, 
"it's  a  devil  of  a  mistake.  Wife  at  home,  babies,  domestic 


8  PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS 

interests.  I  tell  you  that  sort  of  thing  plays  the  deuce 
with  a  chap's  chances/' 

"You're  so  damned  ambitious,  old  man/'  observed 
Burdon. 

'I'm  damned  interested  in  what  I'm  going  to  do,  if 
that's  what  you  mean.  And  if  you're  not,  I  don't  see 
the  good  of  doing  it." 

"Bread  and  butter,  my  dear  chap,  and  one's  people  at 
one's  back  insisting  upon  one's  having  a  career." 

"Career !"    Hall's  thin  lip  curled. 

"Besides,  I  am  interested  in  it;  only  I  don't  think  it's 
the  only  thing  in  the  world,  that's  all." 

"No ;  there  are  women — in  tights." 

"I  don't  know  that  they're  any  the  worse  for  that," 
said  Burdon  stoutly.  "They're  as  good,  some  of  'em,  as 
gold.  Tights  don't  imply " 

"That  you're  on  the  loose,"  put  in  Gale,  thereby  caus- 
ing one  of  the  ill-used  antimacassars  to  be  aimed  at  his 
head.  He  dodged  it  successfully  and  went  on  speaking. 
"It's  no  good  you  two  fellows  beginning  to  argue,  because 
you  don't  see  one  single  thing  in  the  world  from  the  same 
point  of  view.  Percy,  you're  an  ordinary  human  being; 
and  Hall's  a — well,  a  scientist." 

"And  what  are  you?"  asked  Hall. 

"I'm  a "  Gale  stretched  himself.  "The  Lord  only 

knows." 

"I  know  what  you  will  be  if  you  don't  look  out;  and 
that's  a  failure." 

"Thanks,  old  chap.    But  may  be;  may  very  well  be." 

"It's  all  very  well,  you  know,  but  rowdiness  don't  pay. 
Passes  in  a  student,  but  when  a  man  gets  to  work " 

"Pregnant  pause  that!    Ain't  it,  Percy?"  said  Gale. 

"Ass !"  muttered  Hall. 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS  9 

"An  ass  in  a  lion's  skin — with  a  lion's  mane,  at  any 
rate,"  said  Burdon. 

The  allusion  was  to  Gale's  tawny  hair,  whicH  was  in- 
conveniently thick  and  strong;  it  had  always  heen  cut, 
according  to  Gale,  yesterday,  and  always  looked  as  if  it 
ought  to  be  cut,  at  latest,  to-morrow.  Gale  gave  his  head 
a  little  shake,  thereby  causing  disorder  in  the  too  exu- 
berant locks,  then  passed  his  hand  over  them  to  smooth 
them  down  again.  It  was  a  trick  he  had. 

"Sidney  Gale,  M.M. — Medical  Moke.  I  wonder  how 
it  would  look  on  a  door-plate  I"  said  he. 

"It'll  be  the  only  degree  you'll  arrive  at  if  you  don't 
look  out,"  declared  Hall. 

"A  little  captious,  our  friend,  to-night,  don't  you  think, 
Percy?  Hulloa!  somebody's  in  a  hurry.  Hear  those 
hansom  doors?  And  Jove,  what  a  ring!  Expecting  any 
startling  denouement,  old  chap  ?  Because  Hall  and  I " 

Burdon  shook  his  head  and  laughed.  "Rather  wish  I 
was.  It's  somebody  for  Cameron,  I  expect." 

"Is  that  the  man  downstairs?"  asked  Hall;  "the  man 
I  met  here  once?" 

"Yes." 

"A  misguided  old  juggins  with  ideas  about  the  Absolute." 

"Don't  know.    He's  not  a  bad  sort,  anyhow.    He " 

At  that  instant  the  door  was  flung  open,  and  a  man 
stood  on  the  threshold  and  sought  Percy  with  his  eyes. 

"Mr.  Burdon,"  said  he,  "come  down  to  my  room,  please ! 
I  need  your  help." 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  man  whom  Hall  had  described  as  a  misguided 
old  juggins  was  forty-eight,  and  hardly  looked  his 
age.  His  brown  hair  was  only  slightly  grizzled ;  his  beard, 
close  cut  and  pointed,  was  free  from  any  touch  of  grey. 
Hair  and  beard  surrounded  a  face  that  would  be  best  de- 
scribed as  quiet,  were  it  not  for  the  brilliant  eyes,  deeply 
set,  which  looked  out  from  beneath  thick  eyebrows,  and 
gave  it  a  quality  of  arrestingness. 

The  three  young  men  sprang  to  their  feet  as  he  spoke. 

"Is  it  an  accident?"  asked  Percy. 

Cameron  shrugged  his  shoulders.    "Come  and  see !" 

"We're  all  medicos,"  said  Gale.  "I  suppose  we  can  come 
too?" 

He  turned  to  Hall  as  he  said  the  last  words,  for  Cameron 
and  Percy  were  already  half-way  downstairs,  and,  without 
waiting  for  an  answer,  followed  the  others  out  of  the  room. 
The  flight  of  steps  was  a  long  one,  but  Gale  had  a  way  of 
diminishing  its  length;  he  descended  a  few  grades,  then 
placed  his  hands  on  the  banisters  and  leapt  down  on  to 
the  lower  angle  of  the  staircase.  Hall  went  down  in  the 
usual  way,  but  as  fast  as  that  way  permitted,  for  his 
professional  instincts  were  excited,  and  he  was  eager  to 
know  the  cause  of  Cameron's  summons. 

But  when  he  entered  Cameron's  room  his  enthusiasm 
died  down.  What  he  saw  was  not  the  least  what  he 
expected  or  hoped  to  see. 

10 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  II 

At  one  end  of  the  room  was  a  square  dining-table,  and 
on  the  table  lay  a  dog,  a  collie;  that  it  was  in  pain  and 
teror  was  evident;  its  eyes  held  the  pleading  look  that 
suffering  calls  into  the  eyes  of  all  animals,  becoming  more 
intense  as  the  animal  descends  in  the  scale  of  sensitiveness 
and  intelligence.  Round  its  neck  was  a  bandage,  and  the 
bandage  held  in  place  a  tube  inserted  in  the  animal's 
throat.  Hall  observed  it  for  a  moment;  then,  "What's 
this  ?"  he  asked. 

There  was  a  denunciatory  inflection  in  his  voice,  and 
the  owner  of  the  room  threw  him  a  quick  glance. 

"Dinna  fash  wi'  questions,"  he  said,  suddenly  breaking 
into  broad  Scotch  "My  hand's  out,"  he  continued,  turn- 
ing to  Burdon.  "That's  why  I  want  your  help." 

"We  ought  to  anaesthetise  for  this,"  said  Gale.  "Got 
any  chloroform?" 

"Man,  how  did  I  come  to  forget  it?  I  got  everything 
else  on  my  way." 

"Oh,  Burdon's  probably  got  some.  He's  always  inhal- 
ing." 

"Yes — let  me  see — I  was  inhaling  only  this  morning  for 
neuralgia.  You  know  the  cupboard  on  the " 

"Go  and  get  it  yourself,  old  chap,  as  you  know  where 
it  is." 

Burdon  was  out  of  the  room  and  back  again  in  a  couple 
of  minutes;  but  during  his  absence  Gale  had  unfastened 
the  bandage. 

"Yes — through  the  oesophagus  and  down  into  the 
stomach.  See?"  he  said. 

All  round  the  opening  of  the  wound  from  which  the 
tube  protruded  were  gangrenous  sores,  caused  by  the  over- 
flow of  the  destructive  juices  of  the  stomach. 


12  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

"It's  been  in  some  time/'  observed  Burdon,  coming 
back. 

"Keep  your  hand  on  his  heart,  Mr.  Gale,"  said  Cameron. 
"I'll  give  the  chloroform;  and  you,  Mr.  Burdon " 

"No,  no,  you  watch  the  heart,  G.P.,"  broke  in  Gale, 
addressing  Burdon.  "I'll  do  the  surgery." 

As  the  animal's  muscles  relaxed,  as  the  consciousness 
faded  in  its  eyes,  Gale  withdrew  the  tube  and  proceeded  to 
wash  out  the  wound  and  cleanse  the  open  sores  which 
edged  it  round. 

"You've  deft  hands,"  remarked  Cameron  approvingly. 

Hall  stood  and  looked  on  in  silence. 

"Now  for  the  sutures,"  said  Gale. 

Cameron  handed  him  the  silk  and  needle,  and  Gale 
began  the  stitching  of  the  interior  wound  in  the  gullet; 
but  as  he  inserted  the  needle,  the  dog  writhed  and  moaned. 

"Anaesthesia  not  deep  enough,"  he.  said.  "Try  a  whiff 
or  two  more." 

"Look  out  you  don't  kill,"  said  Hall.  It  was  the  first 
time  he  had  spoken  since  his  question  on  entering  the 
room. 

"All  right,"  returned  Gale.  "Just  a  wee  bit  deeper, 
Mr.  Cameron." 

"Steady  on!"  cried  Burdon.  "By  Jove!  I  thought  it 
had  stopped  altogether  that  time!" 

The  three  faces  gathered  round  the  dog  were  all  intent ; 
Gale's  eyes  were  steady  with  concentration.  He  thought 
now  no.  more  of  the  chloroform,  of  any  adjunct  of  that 
upon  which  he  was  engaged;  that  was  the  business  of  the 
others ;  all  the  consciousness  of  his  brain  was  centred  upon 
the  work  of  his  hands. 

The  dog  lay  quite  still  now,  and  for  one  minute  there 
was  silence.  .Then  Percy  spoke.  "He's  gone,  I  believe." 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  18 

"Surely "  began  Cameron. 

"He's  done  for.    No  doubt  about  it." 

Gale  put  down  the  needle,  and  Cameron  placed  his  hand 
where  Burdon's  had  been.  There  was  no  doubt  that 
Burdon  was  right;  the  heart,  irregular  of  action,  as  are 
the  hearts  of  the  majority  of  dogs,  had  ceased  to  beat  under 
the  action  of  the  chloroform,  and  no  efforts  availed  to 
set  it  to  work  again. 

"I  told  you/'  said  Hall,  coming  forward,  "that  you  had 
to  be  careful  in  putting  a  dog  under  deep  anaesthesia." 

"Young  man,"  answered  .Cameron,  *I  probably  was 
aware  of  that  fact  before  you  were  born.  What  I  tried 
to  do  was  to  touch  the  point  which  combines  the  persist- 
ence of  life  with  the  minimum  of  suffering.  What  I  did 
was  to  miss  it.  At  any  rate,  I  saved  yon  poor  beast  from 
a  worse  fate." 

"What  fate?" 

"Well "  The  older  man  looked  at  the  younger  and 

paused.  "I  don't  know  that  I'm  bound  to  tell  you  that, 
for  as  far  as  I  remember  you  came  into  my  room,  not  by 
my  invitation,  but  your  own  wish.  Still,  I'm  willing  to 
tell  you.  I'll  tell  you  all,"  he  said,  glancing  at  the  other 
two  young  men.  "I  was  in  a  shop  this  afternoon  in 
Campbell  Street.  The  shopkeeper  was  engaged  with  a  lady 
when  I  went  in,  and  while  I  was  waiting  the  dog  there 
came  rushing  in.  He  was  as  you  saw  him  a  while  ago,  the 
bandage  round  his  neck  and  the  tube  in  his  throat." 

"He  came  from  the  hospital,"  Hall  broke  in. 

"Just  so,"  answered  Cameron  in  a  tone  which  implied 
that  he  desired  no  interruptions.  "He  had  escaped  from 
the  Campbell  Street  hospital  and  from  a  scientific  experi- 
ment. He  lifted  his  fore-paws  on  to  the  counter  and  looked 
at  the  shopman.  If  ever  a  dumb  thing  asked  for  help,  that 


14.  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

creature  asked  for  it  then.  The  tears  were  streaming  down 
his  face.  I  remembered  my  student  days;  I  remembered 
why  I  am  not  in  practice  now;  I  think  quickly  and  decide 
sometimes  as  quickly  as  I  think."  The  Scotch  words  and 
accent  broke  again  into  Cameron's  speech.  "I  took  the 
puir  beastie  in  my  arms  and  was  out  of  the  shop  and  into 
a  hansom  in  a  trice.  I'm  thinkin'  there's  ane  experiment 
they'll  no  finish." 

"And  I  for  one  am  glad,"  said  Gale. 

"Can't  say  I'm  sorry,"  muttered  Percy. 

Hall  hesitated,  then,  "Mr.  Cameron,"  said  he,  "what  you 
choose  to  do  is,  I  suppose,  no  business  of  mine,  especially 
— as  you  have  reminded  me — as  you  did  not  ask  me  to 
take  a  hand  in  it.  I  gather  that  you  were  once  a  member 
of  the  medical  profession ;  why  you  left  if  is  also,  I  take  it, 
no  business  of  mine.  But  you  two  fellows,  what  are  you 
doing  in  this  galley?  If  I  were  to  report  your  share  in 
this  at  headquarters,  how  would  you  look  ?" 

Burden's  colour  changed.  "My  dear  man/'  he  began, 
but  Gale  interrupted  him. 

"Bosh!"  said  he.  "Don't  go  and  make  a  greater  ass 
of  yourself  than  Nature  meant  you  for,  Hall." 

"All  very  well,  but  you  don't  seem  to  realise  that  you 
two  fellows  have  behaved  like  blacklegs,  gone  against  the 
laws,  unwritten,  if  not  declared " 

"Oh,  stow  it!"  broke  in  Gale  again.  He  turned  to 
Cameron.  "You'll  excuse  us  now,  sir.  We'll  take  Hall 
upstairs  and  give  him  a  cigar  or  sit  on  his  head.  Go  on, 
Hall!  Percy,  don't  forget  your  chloroform." 

Hall  bowed  stiffly,  Burdon  clumsily,  but  both  young 
men  left  the  room. 

Gale,  before  he  followed  them,  held  out  his  hand.    "I 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  15 

say,"  he  said,  "blackleg  or  no  blackleg,  you  know,  I'm 
jolly  glad  you  carted  off  that  dog." 

Cameron  took  the  hand  and  wrung  it  forcibly. 

"Mon,"  said  he,  "if  that's  the  way  the  wind  blaws, 
ye've  no  an  easy  gait  to  gang." 

Half  an  hour  later,  as  Gale  descended  the  staircase,  John 
Cameron's  door  opened,  at  first  cautiously,  then  wide. 

"Ah,  it  is  you,  Mr.  Gale,"  he  said.  "I  thought  it 
might  be  the  other  one.  Can  you  come  in  ?" 

Gale  hesitated.  "Well,  hardly  now,  I'm  afraid.  I'm 
house  surgeon  at  St.  Anne's,  you  see,  and " 

"You  must  be  back,  of  course." 

"I  wish  I  could." 

"Well,  come  some  other  day.    What's  your  best  time?" 

"I'm  generally  off  duty  between  five  and  seven." 

"Name  your  day,  then,  and  I'll  be  sure  of  being  in." 

"I'll  come  to-morrow,"  said  Gale  impulsively. 

"That's  right.    Then  I'll  expect  you."' 

"A  queer  old  Johnny,"  said  Gale  to  himself  as  he  went 
down  the  street;  "but  I'd  like  to  have  a  talk  with  him 
and  hear  what  he's  got  to  say." 


CHAPTEE  III 

THE  next  afternoon  found  Gale  again  in  Hinde  Street. 
He  did  not  go  upstairs  to  see  if  Burdon  were  at 
home,  but  asked  the  servant  who  opened  the  door  to  take 
him  at  once  to  Cameron's  room. 

The  room  was  respectably  ugly,  but  with  its  drawn  cur- 
tains and  blazing  fire  it  had  a  comfortable  look,  especially 
after  the  depressing  atmosphere  of  the  foggy  street  outside. 
Tea  was  laid  on  the  square  table,  a  small  white  cloth,  spread 
cornerwise,  partially  concealing  the  thick  tapestry  cover 
which  veiled  its  cumbrous  solidity. 

"Come  away  in  and  sit  down,"  was  Cameron's  welcome. 
"I'm  glad  to  see  you.  We'll  have  our  tea  and  then  a  pipe." 

Gale  took  the  chair  which  his  host  placed  for  him  by 
the  table,  and  Cameron  poured  out  a  cup  of  tea.  "I  don't 
take  it  myself,"  he  remarked,  "so  you  won't  mind  if  I  only 
look  on?" 

Gale  was  not  without  a  shyness  of  his  own,  but  there 
was  something  about  his  host  which  set  him  at  his  ease, 
and  he  ate  bread  and  marmalade  and  drank  tea  with  frank 
enjoyment  and  a  hearty  appetite,  undisturbed  by  the  fact 
that  his  host  took  neither  food  nor  drink.  Later  on,  he 
wondered  if  he  had  done  a  wise  thing  in  accepting  John 
Cameron's  invitation;  but  while  he  made  up  for  a  hasty 
lunch,  and  afterwards,  when,  pipe  in  mouth  and  tobacco 
jar  at  elbow,  he  found  himself  seated  in  a  leather  arm- 
chair opposite  his  host,  he  felt  very  glad  that  he  had  come. 

16 


17 

Cameron  inspired  him  with  sympathy  and  confidence;  in- 
terested him,  too.  Sidney  Gale  was  one  of  the  people  who 
begin  life  "expecting  things  to  happen" ;  and  there  was  no 
knowledge  what  possibilities  were  contained  in  this  new 
acquaintance. 

The  sympathy  and  confidence  were  apparently  mutual, 
for  the  first  thing  Cameron  said  after  the  pipes  were  fairly 
started  was,  "Do  you  know  why  I  asked  you  to  come  and 
eee  me,  laddie  ?"  And  on  Gale's  negative,  "Because  I  took 
a  fancy  to  you/'  he  said.  "I  didn't  take  a  fancy  to  your 
friend/'  he  went  on  presently,  "the  one  who  stood  and 
looked  on.  He  and  I  have  vibrations  that  don't  accord. 
Young  Burdon — well,  he's  a  good  laddie  enough,  but  he's 
just  like  a  thousand  others,  and  you  have  but  to  put  him 
into  the  usual  mould  for  him  to  take  the  usual  shape.  But 
you're  not  quite  that." 

"Oh,  I  hope  not,"  cried  Gale.  "I  want  to  be " 

He  stopped  and  sought  for  a  word,  then  laughed  and 
finished  up  with  "unique." 

"There  are  more  ways  than  one  of  being  that.  You 
may  be  a  unique  success,  or  a  unique — failure." 

"No,  no,  sir,  please!     I  bar  failure." 

"Yet  it's  grander  sometimes  than  fame." 

"You  might  have  both.  I  mean,"  said  Gale,  shaking  out 
his  hair  and  smoothing  it  down  again,  "I  shouldn't  mind 
being  a  famous  failure,  coming  to  grief  in  a  splendid  way, 
don't  you  know." 

"By  splendid  you  mean  conspicuous,  I  suppose." 

"Perhaps  I  do." 

"You  could  stand  melodrama,  but  not  tragedy." 

"I  dare  say  that's  about  it.  Yet — tragedies,  the  great 
tragedies,  one  does  hear  of  them,  you  know." 

"Does  one?.    ,Well,  we'll  leave  that  alone  just  now.     I 


18  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

noticed  yesterday — I  think  I  said  so — that  you've  deft 
hands,  real  surgeon's  hands,  and  you  use  them  as  a  man 
uses  them  who's  born,  not  merely  trained,  to  the  Burgeon's 
trade." 

Gale  blushed;  he  tried  to  look  deprecating,  but  his  eyes 
sparkled. 

"It's — it's  awfully  nice  of  you  to  say  so,"  was  all  he 
could  find  to  say. 

"No,  it's  not,"  returned  the  other.  "Awfully  nice  is  not 
at  all  what  I  am,  in  that  or  in  anything  else.  But  I  seem 
to  see  in  you  the  makings  of  a  great  surgeon,  and  perhaps 
of  a  great  man;  and  last  evening  I  was  wondering  which 
you'd  be." 

"Can't  I  be  both?" 

The  host  sat  and  looked  at  his  guest  a  few  moments,  but 
there  was  more  reflection  than  scrutiny  in  his  eyes. 

"Lawson  Tait  is,"  he  said,  "both  famous  and  great ;  but 
Tait  had  the  advantage  of  beginning  his  career  in  the  fold 
of  orthodoxy.  Advantage?  the  sine  qua  non  I  ought  to 
say,  for  to  be  unorthodox  in  medicine  is  to  cut  away  from 
yourself  all  chances  of  fame." 

"Yet  Tait " 

Cameron  held  up  his  hand.  "Tait  had  made  his  name 
before  he  broke  with  convention.  He  is  beyond  the  reach 
of  boycott,  and  they  must  acknowledge  his  greatness  simply 
because  he  has  been  able  to  prove  that  it  is  indisputable; 
though,  of  course,  when  he's  gone  and  can't  answer  them, 
they'll  begin  to  say  he's  unscientific — as  they  do  of  Sir 
William  Fergusson,  who,  while  he  lived,  was  at  the  top  of 
the  tree.  Strange  that  the  whole  system  of  medical  research 
ia  based  on  the  policy  of  results,  and  yet,  however  splendid 
results  a  man  obtains  in  adding  to  the  sum  of  knowledge 
and  in  proving  that  knowledge  by  practical  demonstration, 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS  19 

it  counts  for  nothing  if,  in  the  gaining  it,  he  departs  from 
the  conventional  methods  I" 

"But  I  suppose  that  so  great  a  consensus  of  opinion " 

began  Gale,  hut  Cameron  again  interrupted  him. 

"There  has  been  a  consensus  of  opinion  about  all  the  false 
ideas  that  have  ever  ruled  the  world ;  and  the  men  who  first 
rise  up  to  proclaim  them  false  are  invariably  condemned  as 
madmen,  scoffed  at  as  fools,  feared  and  hated  as  revolution- 
aries ;  finally  revered."  Cameron  paused.  "So,  at  the  last," 
he  added,  in  a  softer  tone,  "at  the  end  of  evolution,  when  we 
have  outgrown  the  shams,  we  shall  reach  the  truth." 

Gale  hesitated.  "I  was  reading  the  other  day,"  he  began, 
"a  book  by  a  man  who  called  himself  a  mystic,  and  I  came 
across  something  rather  like  what  you've  just  said.  I 
wonder  if " 

Cameron  smiled.  "If  I'm  a  mystic,  too?  Well,  if  to 
desire  truth,  to  seek  it  constantly,  and  to  think  no  labour 
too  great  in  the  search,  no  painstaking  too  minute,  no  service 
too  humble — if  that  is  to  be  a  mystic,  then  a  mystic  un- 
doubtedly I  am." 

"Why,  sir,"  cried  Gale,  "you  have  described  a  scientist !" 

"And  an  artist,"  said  a  voice  from  the  door;  "if  truth  and 
beauty  are,  as  has  been  said,  the  same.  Mr.  Cameron,"  the 
voice  went  on,  "you  said  I  might  come  and  see  you  again, 
and  so — well,  here  I  am.  With  your  love  of  truth,  you 
mustn't  blame  me  for  taking  you  at  your  word." 

"Come  in,  come  in,  Miss  Lowther !  I'm  very  glad  to  see 
you.  This  is  my  friend  Mr.  Gale." 

The  girl  at  the  door  shut  it  behind  her  and  came  over  to 
the  fire. 

"You  were  so  busy  talking  that  you  never  heard  my 
knock,"  she  said,  "and  I  thought  Percy  must  have  made  a 
mistake  and  that  you  were  out." 


20  PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS 

"I  can  recommend  this  chair,"  said  Gale,  pointing  to 
the  one  he  had  risen  from. 

"No,  thank  you,  I'  never  sit  in  arm-chairs ;  something 
low  and  compact  is  what  I  like.  No,  Mr.  Cameron,  never 
mind  the  teapot.  I  made  Percy  give  me  tea,  of  course." 

Miss  Lowther  had  seated  herself  on  a  sort  of  stuffed  stool, 
midway  between  the  arm-chairs  which  stood  one  on  each 
side  of  the  fireplace.  "And  now,"  she  said,  "I  want  you 
to  go  on  talking.  What  were  you  talking  about  when  I 
came  in?  It  sounded  interesting." 

"I'd  rather  not  pursue  that  particular  subject  just  now," 
answered  Cameron.  "Putting  that  one  aside,  we'll  talk 
about  anything  you  choose.  What  do  you  like  to  talk  about 
best?" 

"To  be  quite  honest,"  said  Miss  Lowther,  "I  believe 
there's  nothing  I  like  talking  about  so  much  as  myself.  But 
one  can't  begin  with  that;  it  generally  drifts  round." 

"/  should  like  to  begin  with  it  straight  away,"  said 
Gale,  "because  I  want  to  know,  after  what  you  said  when 
you  first  came  in,  if  you're  an  artist." 

"Yes  and  no.  Because  I  want  to  be  so  much,  I  sup- 
pose I  am  a  tiny  bit."  Miss  Lowther  turned  to  the  young 
man  a  deprecating  face.  "I  do  the  thing  that  sounds  so 
dreadful — I  paint  a  little  in  water  colours;  that  is  to  say, 
I  paint  as  much  as  I  can,  and  as  badly  as  few  people  dare." 

Gale  laughed.  "You  have,  at  any  rate,  the  artist's 
divine  discontent." 

"It  hardly  makes  up  for  the  rest." 

"Do  you  go  to  a  studio,  or  work  at  a  school,  or  what?" 

"I  'what';  just  struggle  along  as  best  I  may;  and  my 
best,  as  I  said,  is  bad.  You  see,  ours  is  a  scientific  estab- 
lishment, and  if  I  suggest  the  Slade,  or  even  a  studio  at 
^Fulham,  father  thinks  I'm  neurotic.  I  daren't  persist,  for 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS  21 

fear  he  should  ask  me  to  train  a  class  of  dogs  in  water 
colours,  and  then  start  a  series  of  experiments  to  discover 
an  art  bacillus." 

"What  it  is  to  be  related  to  a  man!  Who  else  would 
dare  to  scoff  at  Dr.  Lowther?" 

"Not  scoff — jest/'  corrected  Miss  Lowther,  "and  one 
only  jests  ebout  the  things  and  people  one  admires  and 
believes  in.  I  have  a  great  admiration  for  father  and  a 
profound  belief  in  him.  Therefore — you  see?" 

For  a  little  while  longer  she  sat  chatting,  obviously  quite 
at  her  ease  both  with  the  older  man  and  the  younger; 
addressing  herself  to  both,  but  answered  almost  entirely 
by  Gale;  then  she  rose  and  asked  for  a  hansom.  It  was 
getting  late,  and  "mother  will  be  wondering  what  has 
become  of  me." 

John  Cameron  went  to  the  door  with  her  and  put  her 
into  the  hansom.  Gale  stood  by  the  fire  and  wondered  how 
Percy  Burdon  could  keep  her  picture  on  the  same  shelf 
as  the  photographs  of  the  girls  in  tights. 

Cameron  came  back  into  the  room,  sat  down,  and  took 
up  his  pipe. 

"Sit  down  again !"  he  said.  "You've  time  yet."  He 
lighted  his  pipe,  took  a  few  whiffs,  then 

"'Every  lassie  has  her  laddie, 

None  they  say  have  I, 
But  all  the  lads  they  smile  at  me 
When  comin'  through  the  rye,'  " 

he  quoted.  "That  seems  to  me  to  -fit  the  young  lady  that's 
just  gone." 

"I  dare  say  she  gets  many  smiles." 

"Ay."  Cameron  puffed  at  his  pipe  in  silence,  his  eyes 
on  the  fire ;  he  was  seemingly  in  a  brown  study,  and  Gale, 


22  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

sufficiently  in  sympathy  with  him  to  respect  his  mood, 
made  no  attempt  at  conversation. 

Presently  Cameron  turned  his  eyes  from  the  fire  to  the 
young  man's  face,  and  began  to  speak,  taking  up  the 
previous  conversation  at  the  very  point  at  which  Miss 
Lowther's  entrance  had  interrupted  it ;  so  that  for  a  moment 
Gale  had  the  feeling  that  her  coming  had  been  of  the  nature 
of  a  vision,  that  the  talk  had  ceased  only  for  an  instant,  and 
that  in  that  instant  he  had  dreamed  a  beautiful  dream. 

"To  seek  for  truth,"  said  Cameron,  "means  generally 
that  you  have  to  separate  yourself  from  those  who  profess 
to  follow  her ;  and  sometimes  that  which  impels  to  the  search 
takes  its  rise  in  emotion.  That  is  why  what  you  said  last 
night  has  caused  me  to  think  much  about  you." 

"Why,  what  did  I  say?"  asked  Gale.  He  was  still  half 
held  by  the  dream. 

"That  you  were  glad  of  that  which  your  friend,  Mr. 
Hall,  regretted.  I  have  known  men  begin  to  think  because 
the  intellect  has  discovered  a  lack  of  logic  in  accepted 
creeds ;  more  often  I  have  seen  them  impelled  to  inquiry  in 
the  first  instance  by  feeling.  You  might  almost  divide 
people  into  those  two  classes;  those  in  whom  intellectual 
activity  precedes  and  forms  a  basis  for  emotional  convic- 
tion, and  those  constrained  by  force  of  feeling  to  submit 
their  emotions  to  the  tribunal  of  the  intellect." 

"Surely  there  is  a  third  class,  sir — and  a  fourth.  There 
is  emotion  so  blind  that  it  is  reckless  of  all  but  its  own 
force ;  and  intellect  so — so " 

"Limited — no,  the  French  have  a  better  word,  borne; 
limited  in  our  colloquial  use  of  it  means  small,  and  a 
man  may  be  brilliantly  clever  and  yet  borne;  intellect  so 
borne,  then,  as  to  be  blind  to  all  but  its  own  capacities  and 
achievements.  Yes,  you're  right.  But  these  are  general 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  23 

questions ;  and  what  I  wanted  to  say  to  you  was  something 
personal." 

Cameron  paused  so  long  that  Gale,  glancing  at  the 
clock,  was  impelled  to  say,  "Well,  sir,  what  was  it  you 
wanted  to  say  to  me  ?" 

"This:  don't  let  your  heart  run  away  with  your  head! 
Prove  and  weigh;  keep  your  mental  eyes  and  ears  open; 
try  to  storm  no  fortress  until  you  are  fully  persuaded  that 
those  who  hold  it  are  aliens  and  not  kinsmen." 

"I — don't  quite — follow  you.  What  fortress  do  you  think 
I  am  likely  to  storm  ?" 

"You.  are  by  nature,  unless  I  am  much  mistaken,  a 
fighter,  perhaps  a  rebel.  If  you  are  only  a  fighter,  you 
will  need  no  counsel  from  me;  you  will  fight  hard,  but  it 
will  be  on  the  side  of  the  majority,  and  you  will  win  laurels. 

But  if  you're  a  rebel "  Cameron  knocked  the  ashes 

from  his  pipe,  and  laid  it  down  beside  him.  "If  you're  a 
rebel,"  he  went  on  presently,  "what  I  have  to  say  to  you 
is — don't  rebel  too  soon !  Walk  in  the  ranks  for  a  while ; 
let  doubt  travail  and  groan  till  conviction  is  mature;  be 
quite  sure  of  yourself  before  you  take  your  stand  V 

"But  in  what  way?  I  don't  feel  as  if  I  wanted  to 
rebel  against  anything." 

"There  was  a  sort  of  rebellion  against  the  views  of  your 
profession  in  your  attitude  towards  yon  poor  dog  last 
night." 

"Oh,  I  see  what  you  mean.  Well,  frankly,  I.  don't  like 
the  live  experiment  business.  I  like  it  so  little  that  in  the 
classes  I — I  •  "  Gale  shook  out  his  hair  in  his  confu- 
sion. "After  each  demonstration,  I  always  wanted  to  go — 
and — and  often  went,  sir — on  the — the  bust,  so  to  speak, 
to  get  it  out  of  my  head."  He  sat  frowning  and  smooth- 
ing down  his  hair.  "For  I'll  bet  my  bottom  dollar" — he 


24  PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS 

was  thinking  of  his  host — "that  he's  a  deuce  of  a  proper 
old  chap." 

The  proper  old  chap  said  nothing  but  "And  your  friend  ?" 

"Hall?  Oh,  Hall's  one  idea  was  to  do  the  experiment 
himself." 

"He'll  get  on." 

"And  I  shall  get  over  it,  of  course;  they  all  do.  It's  a 
weakness,  I  know." 

"You'll  get  hardened,  you  think." 

"I  know  I  shall.  I  must;  for  of  course  it's  necessary. 
I  accept  that,  and  believe  it;  believe  too,  really,  in  its 
Tightness.  For  ifs  right — it  must  be.  It's  right  to  inflict 
a  certain  amount  of  pain  on  the  animal  world  in  order  to 
help  humanity.  It's  kinder,  really  kinder,  to  be  seemingly 
cruel  than  merely  sentimental." 

"Does  disease  decrease — the  sum  of  it — with  these  dis- 
coveries? But  no  matter  now.  Accept,  to  begin  with, 
the  canons  of  the  profession;  accept  its  methods;  accept 
everything  orthodox — except  conclusions.  Draw  those  for 
yourself ;  not  too  hurriedly." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Gale,  "thank  you  very  much!" 

As  he  walked  back  to  the  hospital  he  asked  himself  for 
what  precisely  he  had  thanked  Mr.  Cameron.  Was  it 
because  he  had  interested  him?  It  certainly  could  not 
be  because  he  had  stirred  in  him  anew  those  vague  feel- 
ings of  doubt  which  it  was"  his  constant  endeavour  to  dis- 
courage. 

But  he  did  not  for  long  consider  the  question;  his 
thoughts  flew  back  to  that  dream-like  break  in  the  con- 
versation; flew  back  and  rested  there.  It  was  of  Miss 
Lowther  that  the  young  man  thought  as  he  took  his  way 
through  the  foggy  streets ;  and,  thinking  of  her,  he  dreamed 
a  young  man's  dreams. 


CHAPTEE  IV. 

"T~\  AVID !  I  was  getting  quite  anxious." 

JL-J  "Dear  mother,  don't  you  know  by  this  time  that 
you  need  never  be  anxious  ? — that  I'm  as  well  able  to  look 
after  myself  as  if  I  wore  trousers  instead  of  petticoats  ?" 

"I  know  you  think  you  are.  But  I'm  not  sure  that 
the  girls  of  the  present  day  are  not  too  independent." 

"Can  one  be  too  independent?" 

Mrs.  Lowther  sighed.  "I've  so  often  wondered,"  she  said. 

David  came  across  the  room,  put  her  arm  round  the 
slight  figure  in  the  arm-chair,  and  kissed  her  mother's 
forehead.  "You've  been  alone  all  the  afternoon,  I  expect?" 

Mrs.  Lowther  nodded. 

"And  you've  got  a  bit  hipped." 

"Darling,  I  wish  you  wouldn't  use  Percy's  slang." 

"Is  it  slang?  Honestly,  I  thought  it  was  correctly 
medical." 

"I  shouldn't  say  that  Percy  is  ever  correctly  medical." 

David  laughed.  "Perhaps  not.  By  the  way,  I  saw  his 
friend  this  afternoon — the  great  Gale." 

"Gale?"  said  Mrs.  Lowther  vaguely.  "I  thought  hia 
name  was  Hall." 

"Oh,  that's  another.  They  share  the  treasure  of  Percy's 
devotion  between  them;  he  kneels  to  Hall,  and  worships 
Gale." 

"Did  you  like  him?" 

26 


96 

"Oh,  yes,  I  think  so.  He's  rather  like  shock-headed 
Peter." 

"He  came  to  see  Percy,  I  suppose  ?" 

"No,  he  was  downstairs.  I  went  down  to  see  the  mysteri- 
ous Aberdonian." 

"I  never  heard  of  her/* 

"It's  a  him.  N"o,  it's  not  necessary  to  be  shocked.  He's 
as  old  as  the  hills  and  as  unsentimental  as  his  native 
granite." 

"But,  David " 

"I  assure  you  that  fifty  dowagers  rolled  into  one  wouldn't 
be  in  it  with  Mr.  Cameron  as  a  chaperon.  It  was  really 
much  more  proper  to  meet  Mr.  Gale  in  his  room  -than  in 
Percy's." 

"But  how  did  you  know  him  ?" 

"Don't  you  remember  my  telling  you  that  he  came  to 
Percy's  room  the  day  Mrs.  Vaughan  and  Emily  and  I. had 
tea  there?  and  that  he  invited  us  down  to  look  at  some 
queer  old  black  letter  books  he  has  ?" 

"You  tell  me  so  much,  my  dear,  that  I  forget  some- 
times." 

"Well,  he  did,  and  he  asked  me  to  come  again  if  I  felt 
inclined.  And  I  felt  inclined  this  afternoon." 

"When  David  had  gone  upstairs  Mrs.  Lowther  took  up  the 
work  she  had  laid  down  on  her  daughter's  entrance — a 
knitted  stocking.  She  knitted  stocking  after  stocking ;  not 
because  she  was  interested  in  such  work,  but  because  she 
had  a  definite  object  in  doing  it;  and  the  very  uncon- 
geniality  of  the  task  had  its  value  in  her  eyes. 

Mrs.  Lowther  was  a  woman  who,  at  this  period  of  her 
life,  would  best  be  described  as  colourless.  She  had 
married  young,  and  was  not  many  years  over  forty,  an  age 
at  which  the  modern  woman  considers  that  she  has  barely, 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  27 

reached  maturity  and  is  as  much  entitled  to  take  an  active 
part  in  life,  to  be  interested  and  interesting,  as  are  her 
sisters  in  the  twenties  and  thirties.  With  her  delicate 
features  and  slim  figure,  Bertha  Lowther  might  have  held 
her  own  with  many  women  younger  than  herself  in  years ; 
but  she  bore  upon  her  person,  not  to  say  her  personality, 
the  hall-mark  of  a  previous  generation,  and  was  unmistak- 
ably relegated  to  a  clearly  defined  shelf  marked  "middle 
age."  Her  dress,  perfectly  neat,  showed  no  touch  of 
either  smartness  or  individuality;  her  hair,  faded  but 
not  grey,  was  parted  down  the  middle  and  drawn  back  in 
a  plain  downward  sweep  from  her  face ;  and  she  wore  a  cap, 
a  small,  formless,  quite  unpicturesque  compound  of  white 
lace  and  mauve  ribbon.  Her  physique  invited  her  to  look 
several  years  younger  than  she  was;  her  choice  of  apparel 
charged  her  with  many  more  than  she  had  seen:  she 
might  have  passed  for  thirty-six  or  seven;  the  impression 
she  conveyed  was  of  a  woman  advanced  in  the  fifties. 

People  as  a  rule  did  not  take  much  notice  of  Mrs. 
Lowther.  Among  her  husband's  acquaintances  she  counted 
as  a. nonentity;  in  his  house  she  held  much  the  same  posi- 
tion as  the  cat;  except  that,  with  almost  uniform  success, 
she  conducted  the  housekeeping.  It  could  not  be  said  that 
she  was  not  "in  the  frame,"  as  the  French  say,  in  the  Harley 
Street  household ;  but  she  was  as  a  piece  of  still  life  in  the 
background  of  the  picture,  rather  than  a  living  figure.  Only 
with  her  daughter  was  she  on  terms  of  any  companion- 
ship, and  with  an  old  friend,  Miss  Isabel  Barker,  who  re- 
ceived paying  guests  at  Maida  Hill,  and  came  occasionally 
to  spend  the  day  in  Harley  Street. 

David  was  fond  of  her  mother,  with  a  pitying  sort  of 
fondness;  the  protective  instinct  was  awake  in  it,  but 
associated  with  a  measure  of  condescension  of  which  she 


28  PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS 

was  herself  unaware.    Mother  was  a  dear,  of  course,  and  so 

unselfish;  but She  never  filled  up  the  pause  in  her 

thought;  loyalty  kept  it  blank;  but  had  the  thought  com- 
pleted itself,  it  would  have  run:  "she  has  no  character." 
David  Lowther  adored — to  use  her  own  expression — char- 
acter, purpose,  daring,,  success ;  and  all  her  admiration,  all 
the  affection  which  springs  from  pride  in  the  object  which 
evokes  it,  was  given  to  her  father.  Neither  of  her  parents 
was  altogether  sympathetic  to  her;  and  with  her  father  she 
was  never,  perhaps,  entirely  at  her  ease ;  but  her  great  desire 
was  to  win  his  approval,  and  the  idea  that  he  might  think 
her  foolish  or  weak  was  almost  sufficient  to  deter  her  from 
the  pursuit  of  a  chosen  course  or  an  incipient  thought.  Al- 
most, yet  not  altogether ;  so  that  she  clung  to  her  painting 
in  spite  of  the  fact  that  Dr.  Lowther  had  an  open  contempt 
for  art;  and  cherished  a  secret  inclination  towards  brawn 
velvet  coats  and  turned-down  collars,  though  she  was  well 
aware  that,  while  her  father  looked  down  on  art,  he  looked 
with  yet  more  scornful  gaze  on  artists. 

Upstairs,  in  her  own  private  domain,  David  played  for 
a  little  while  at  being  an  artist.  A  tiny  dressing-room  was 
attached  to  her  bedroom,  and  from  this  all  the  furniture 
which  should  have  filled  it  had  been  cleared:  it  contained 
only  a  couple  of  easels,  a  deal  table,  and  a  painting  stool. 
The  floor  was  bare  and  the  window  uncurtained;  on  the 
table  were  painting  boxes,  sketching  blocks,  and  drawing 
paper.  A  sketch  stood  on  one  of  the  easels;  on  the  other 
hung  a  piece  of  brilliant  scarlet  silk  embroidered  in  gold; 
one  or  two  sketches  and  drawings  were  pinned  against  the 
wall.  David  stood  for  a  minute  regarding  the  general 
effect:  she  had  a  dramatic  sense  and  liked  her  surround- 
ings to  be  typical  of  her  ideas. 

"It's  not  bad,"  she  said  after  a  pause  of  critical  survey. 


PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS  29 

"It  certainly  looks  'struggling/  "  she  sighed.    "The  worst 
part  is  the  things  themselves." 

She  went  forward  and  looked  at  the  half-finished  paint- 
ing on  the  easel.  Very  crude  it  was,  very  untaught ;  David 
had  tried  to  catch  the  effect  of  a  sunset  behind  a  fore- 
ground of  roofs  and  chimney  pots,  and  the  result  was  not  a 
success.  Presently  she  went  back  into  the  bedroom,  took 
off  her  hat  and  her  brown  walking  dress,  and  put  on  a 
sort  of  overall  made  of  coarse  pink  cotton.  It  was  a  be- 
coming garment,  and  she  was  conscious  of  the  fact ;  but  a 
few  stains  and  smudges  of  paint  gave  it  a  professional  air. 
Thus  clad,  she  returned  to  the  little  studio,  and,  having 
turned  on  all  the  electric  light  available,  proceeded  to  work 
at  her  sunset. 

Some  artistic  feeling  she  certainly  possessed,  something 
there  was  within  her  which  asked  and  strove  for  expres- 
sion ;  but  though  she  felt  truly,  she  did  not  see  accurately, 
and,  destitute  as  she  was  of  knowledge  and  training,  she 
lacked  power  to  embody  the  ideas  which  she  conceived, 
or  even  correctly  to  portray  the  objects  which  she  beheld. 
Nevertheless,   it  was   delightful   to   get   away  from  the 
commonplace  world  for  a  time,  and  be  actually  an  artist, 
positively  painting  in  a  real  substantial  studio.     Delight- 
ful it  was  for  a  time ;  yet  at  the  end  of  twenty  minutes  or 
so  David  put  down  her  palette  and  brushes  with  an  ex- 
clamation of  disgust.     "I  don't  know  really  whether   I 
hadn't  better  give  it  all  up  and  take  to  science,"  she  thought. 
She  turned  off  the  light,  went  back  to  her  bedroom,  and 
sat  down  in  front  of  the  fire.     She  had  expressed  her 
preference  in  Mr.  Cameron's  room  for  a  chair  that  was 
low  and  not  too  large,  and  here  on  the  hearthrug  was  her 
ideal  of  what  a  seat  should  be;  a  soft,  solid  mass  of  up- 
holstery, half  stool,  half  cushion;  backless,  but  as  David 


30  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

never  leant  back  when  she  was  thinking,  but  always  for- 
ward, and  as  she  only  sat  there  when  she  wanted  to  think 
and  not  when  she  wanted  to  rest,  that  did  not  matter. 

"At  any  rate,  in  science  I  should  be  taught  and  helped," 
she  was  thinking  now;  "and  after  all  it's  a  splendid  field, 
for  a  woman  especially.  Fancy  being  like  Madame  Curie 
and  having  the  scientists  coming  from  all  parts  of  the  world 
to  see  one  I"  She  gave  an  audible  chuckle.  "What  fun !" 

There  came  a  knock  at  the  door.  "Come  in!"  Then, 
as  the  door  opened,  "Oh,  it's  you,  Emma,"  David  said. 
"Surely  it's  not  dressing-time  yet  ?" 

"Not  quite,  miss,  but  Mrs.  Lowther  wished  me  to  tell 
you  that  Professor  Cranley-Chance  is  coming  to  dinner. 
She  forgot  to  mention  it." 

"  Oh,  well,  I  suppose  that  means  that  I'm  to  wear  a  dress 
and  not  a  tea-gown.  Let  me  see!  my  white  and  gold,  I 
think,  Emma,  please.  It  seems  a  waste,"  David  was 
thinking  to  herself;  "I  suppose  he's  some  fusty,  musty  old 
thing.  But  I  haven't  got  anything  else." 

"It's  all  very  well,"  her  thoughts  ran  on,  as  she  dressed, 
"father  can  say  what  he  likes,  but  artists  are  a  better- 
looking  lot  than  scientists;  and  I  don't  care  what  any- 
body says,  looks  count  for  a  good  deal  in  the  world.  Yes, 
bronze  shoes,  Emma,  but  the  second  best  ones  will  do." 


CHAPTER  V 

"•pROFESSOR  CRANLEY-CHANCE." 

JL  Mrs.  Lowther  rose  from  her  chair  by  the  fire  to 

receive  the  guest.  The  doctor  was  not  yet  down,  and  she 
particularly  disliked  receiving  her  husband's  friends  when 
her  husband  was  not  there  to  bear  the  brunt  of  entertaining 
them. 

David,  however,  was  prepared  to  come  to  the  rescue. 
"Father  will  be  here  directly,"  she  said.  "Won't  you  sit 
down?" 

The  professor  was  a  big  man,  with  a  strong  and,  as  many 
thought,  a  handsome  face;  noted  in  scientific  circles,  and 
recently  to  be  met  in  that  wider,  more  heterogeneous  com- 
pany known  as  Society.  As  David  observed — "as  she  did 
instantly — his  well-made  clothes,  correct  tie,  and  patent- 
leather  shoes,  she  realised  that  he  was  neither  musty  nor 
fusty,  and  was  glad  that  she  had  put  on  the  "white  and 
gold" ;  she  also  became  conscious  that  the  second  best  shoes 
were  just  a  trifle  worn  at  the  tips  of  the  toes. 

The  professor  shook  hands  with  his  hostess,  but  his 
eyes  went  past  her,  the  moment  he  entered  the  room,  to 
her  daughter.  He  was  a  man  who,  when  he  concerned 
himself  at  all  with  women,  liked  them  to  be  good-looking, 
and  Miss  Lowther,  he  told  himself,  had  good  looks  of  a 
kind  he  admired.  Many  people  were  of  Professor  Chance's 
opinion ;  David  Lowther  was  generally  acknowledged  to  be 
a  nice-looking  girl;  though  many  of  her  acquaintances 

81 


32  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

refused  to  credit  her  with  the  more  positive  quality  of 
prettiness.  A  not  too  friendly  critic  had  once  called  her  a 
brown  girl,  and  there  was  truth  in  the  criticism,  though  her 
brownness  was,  in  the  eyes  of  many,  one  of  her  charms. 
Her  hair  was  brown,  a  brilliant,  decided  brown;  her  skin, 
fair  and  clear,  had  a  look  as  though  it  had  been  faintly 
tanned  by  the  sun;  her  eyes  were  a  curious  mixture  of 
brown  and  grey.  Her  face  was  somewhat  wide,  the  fore- 
head broad  and  low,  the  eyes  set  far  apart,  the  chin  short 
and  full.  Though  she  might  lack  power  of  expression  in 
the  art  which  she  had  elected  to  follow,  she  was  able — 
with  an  ability  often  denied  to  those  who  can  paint  beauti- 
ful pictures — to  express  her  sense  of  beauty  in  her  dress; 
and  this  evening,  though  she  had  expected  to  see  only  an 
uninteresting  old  gentleman  of  the  fogey  type,  the  artist 
element  had  not  failed  to  assert  itself.  She  possessed,  too, 
the  rare  gift  of  being  able  to  place  a  flower  in  her  hair  at 
just  the  right  spot,  at  just  the  right  angle,  and  the  becom- 
ing effect  of  her  flowing  white  gown  with  its  gold  trimming 
was  heightened  and  completed  by  a  yellow  rose  which 
showed  itself  on  the  left  side  of  her  well-dressed  head.  As 
she  stood  in  the  shaded  light,  the  flames  from  the  fire 
throwing  a  moving  brilliance  on  the  satin  whiteness  of  her 
gown,  Cranley- Chance  thought  he  had  rarely  seen  a  woman 
who  had  better  pleased  him;  and  when  she  sat  down  he 
took  a  chair  near  her,  and  ignoring,  as  most  people  ignored, 
her  mother's  presence,  set  himself  to  find  out  what — as  he 
expressed  it  to  himself — she  was  made  of. 

He  had  not  got  further  in  his  investigations  than  to 
discover  that  Miss  Lowther  objected  to  fog  and  detested 
the  English  winter,  when  her  father  came  in;  and  after 
shaking  hands,  host  and  guest  retreated  to  that  refuge  of 
British  self-consciousness,  the  hearthrug,  where,  fortified 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS  3S 

apparently  by  the  sensation  of  heat  in  the  back,  the 
Englishman  appears  more  at  his  ease  than  in  any  other 
part  of  the  room.  Not  that  Dr.  Lowther  suffered  from 
self -consciousness ;  he  had  too  much  confidence  in  himself 
to  be  a  prey  to  any  form  of  shyness;  he  stood  firm  upon 
the  rock  of  success,  and  had  never  stumbled  on  the  way  over 
doubts  of  his  own  ability.  A  man  of  middle  height  and 
middle  age,  strong  in  physique  and  brain,  with  a  good- 
looking  face  and  slightly  arrogant  manner,  he  was  popular 
in  his  profession  and  in  the  world  of  science  generally. 
Patients  came  from  far  and  wide  to  consult  Dr.  Lowther; 
scientific  brethren  received  his  opinions  with  deference.  He 
was  generous  in  helping  on  ability  of  a  positive  and  defi- 
nite type,  relentless  in  opposing  all  that  appeared  to  him 
futile  or  weak.  He  was  fond  of  his  daughter,  partly  be- 
cause she  sometimes  took  her  own  way;  he  despised  his 
wife,  chiefly  because  she  always  submitted  to  his. 

At  dinner  Professor  Chance  sat  opposite  Miss  Lowther, 
and  a  tall  vase  of  flowers  prevented  his  looking  at  her  as 
much  as  he  wished. 

"Of  course  they'll  talk  shop,"  thought  David,  as  she 
settled  herself  in  her  chair.  Her  mental  tone  was  one  of 
resignation;  she  was  used  to  these  friends  of  her  father's, 
who  came  to  dinner  at  short  notice,  and  had  accustomed 
herself  not  to  listen  to  their  conversation. 

The  doctor  and  his  guest  began  with  the  discussion  of 
men — fellow-scientists;  from  men  they  passed  to  matter, 
from  matter  to  bacilli,  from  bacilli  to  the  most  recently 
discovered  serum.  David  lent  a  half  attention  to  the 
beginning  of  the  talk,  but  at  the  first  mention  of  sensory 
nerves  she  retreated  to  the  citadel  of  her  own  interests, 
and  by  the  time  dessert  was  on  the  table  she  was  far  away 
from  the  fruit  she  was  eating.  She  was  plunged  back  into 


84  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

her  actual   surroundings  by   an   astonishing   fact:   Mrs. 
Lowther  had  joined  in  the  conversation. 

"Evil  can  never  work  anything  but  evil,"  she  was  say- 
ing, when  David  woke  up.  "How  do  you  know  that  these 
serums  are  not  laying  the  foundation  of  diseases  worse  than 
those  they  are  supposed  to  cure  ?" 

"Sera,  my  dear/'  corrected  the  doctor. 
"The  form  of  the  plural  hardly  alters  the  argument, 
does  it?"  said  Cranley- Chance  kindly,  after  a  glance  at 
his  hostess's  face.  "Your  mother/'  he  went  on,  trying  to 
look  at  David  round  the  vase  of  flowers,  "is  fighting  the 
battle  of  the  sentimentalists." 

"Against  intellect  and  humanity,"  added  Dr.  Lowther. 
David  glanced  from  father  to  mother.     The  one  face 
wore  a  disdainful  smile;  the  other  looked  not  far  from 
tears. 

"Which  side  do  you  take?"  asked  the  professor,  getting, 
this  time,  a  really  good  view  of  her. 
"I?    Oh,  the  weakest,  of  course." 
'Then  side  with  your  mother,"  said  Lowther. 
"Yes,  mother  and  I  will  side  together  in  the  drawing- 
room."    David  glanced  at  her  mother  as  she  spoke,  and 
the  woman  and  the  girl  rose  together. 

Chance  held  the  door  open  as  they  passed  out.     "She 

moves  well,"  he  said  to  himself  as  he  closed  it  behind  them. 

"Oh,  David!"  said  Mrs.  Lowther  in  the  drawing-room; 

the  threatening  tears  had  been  driven  away,  but  her  voice 

was  tremulous. 

"Dear  mother,  whatever  did  you  do  it  for?    I've  never 
heard  you  contradict  anything  father  said  before." 

"I  don't  know.     Something  took  possession  of  me  and 
made  me  speak  before  I  knew  what  I  was  saying." 
David's  eyes  glowed.    "Is  it  there  still — the  something?" 


35 

Mrs.  Lowther  shook  her  head.  "No;  it  was  a  ghost  of 
something  that  is  dead." 

"And  ghosts  only  appear  for  a  moment ;  they  don't  stay." 
The  girl's  voice  was  rueful ;  this  ghost  had  vested  her  moth- 
er with  a  new  interest;  she  wished  it  could  have  remained 
longer  in  possession  of  the  unobtrusive  personality. 

"Not  visibly.    David,  will  you  give  me  my  knitting?" 

Mrs.  Lowther,  in  her  grey  dress,  a  grey  too  drab  in  tone, 
too  dark  in  shade,  to  be  either  pretty  in  itself  or  becoming 
to  her  pale  face,  sat  down  and  knitted  with  the  monotonous 
regularity  which  David  associated  with  all  that  her  mother 
did,  and  which  frequently  had  an  irritating  effect  on  the 
girl's  nerves,  so  machine-like  it  was,  so  lacking  in  spon- 
taneity or  the  suggestion,  even,  of  interest. 

"Mother,"  said  David  suddenly,  "I  wish  you'd  drop  a 
stitch." 

"Why,  dear?" 

"Because — oh,  because  you'd  have  to  stop  and  pick  it 
up  again.  It — it  would  make  a  break." 

"I  don't  know" — Mrs.  Lowther  looked  up  and  smiled  a 
little — "I  don't  know  that  I  want  to  make  a  break." 

"It's  dreadful  to  go  on  and  on,  working  at  a  thing  that 
doesn't  interest  you." 

"But  it  does  interest  me;  and  it's  by  working  steadily, 
in  the  way  that  seems  to  make  you  impatient,  that  I  get 
through  as  much  as  I  do." 

"Your  whole  life's  like  a  piece  of  knitting;  plain  knit- 
ting, without  any  ribs  in  it,  or  even  a  dropped  stitch  by 
way  of  variety." 

There  was  a  note  of  protesting  contempt  in  David's 
voice. 
Mrs.  Lowther  shook  her  head.    "I  dropped  stitches  once 


36  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

and  did  not  pick  them  up  again.  When  you  do  that,  your 
life  is  apt  to  unravel,  and  the  only  way  is  to  live  it  quietly." 

Back  into  David's  mind  and  heart,  back  into  her  eyes, 
rushed  the  interest  that,  but  a  few  minutes  ago,  her  mother 
had  for  the  first  time  stirred  in  her.  She  left  the  mantel- 
piece, by  which  she  had  been  standing,  came  forward  im- 
pulsively and  knelt  by  the  low  chair. 

"Mother,"  she  said,  with  coaxing  eagerness,  "tell  me 
about  the  dropped  stitches.'* 

"I  couldn't."  Then  suddenly  Mrs.  Lowther  put  down 
her  knitting  and  held  her  face  for  a  minute  to  her  daugh- 
ter's face.  "Whatever  happens  to  you  in  life,"  she  said 
hurriedly,  "hold  fast  to  the  things  you  believe  in — really 
believe.  Don't  let  anybody  or  anything  come  between  you 
and  what  you  feel  to  be  the  truth !"  She  drew  away  again. 
"Don't  ask  me  any  more,  David,  but  fetch  me  another 
skein  of  wool.  You  know  where  they  are ;  in  the  left-hand 
top  drawer  of  the  wardrobe." 

When  David  came  downstairs  again  her  father  and 
Chance  were  at  the  drawing-room  door,  and  the  three 
entered  the  room  together. 

"You  don't  mind  my  going  on  with  my  knitting?"  said 
Mrs.  Lowther  in  the  perfunctory  tone  in  which  a  man,  in- 
tending to  smoke,  says  to  a  woman,  "You  don't  mind  my 
cigar?" 

The  professor  gave  the  answer  that  the  woman  on  sucli 
an  occasion  generally  gives:  "Not  at  all";  and  then  he 
asked  himself  how  the  deuce  he  was  going  to  get  an  oppor- 
tunity of  finding  out  what  that  girl  was  made  of. 

He  did  not  get  the  chance  at  all  that  evening,  for, 
while  he  was  longing  to  talk  what  can  best  be  described 
as  "man  and  woman"  to  Miss  Lowther,  he  was  obliged,  by 
politeness  and  his  reputation,  to  discuss  scientific  medicine 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  37 

with  his  host.  The  doctor  and  his  wife  showed  no  disposi- 
tion to  play  Darby  and  Joan  in  one  corner  while  he  amused 
himself  with  their  daughter  in  another;  and  as  Miss 
Lowther  apparently  did  not  take  an  interest  in  scientific 
medicine,  and  her  father  declined  to  wander  to  more  frivol- 
ous topics,  it  was  impossible  to  draw  her  into  the  conver- 
sation. He  himself  was  not  the  least  in  the  mood  for 
professional  conversation,  and  he  rose  at  last  in  despair. 

"It's  getting  late/'  he  said. 

"Not  at  all,  my  dear  fellow.    It's  barely  half -past  ten." 

"Late,  considering,  I  mean,  that  I  have  work  I  must 
do  to-night." 

When  Chance  had  gone  Mrs.  Lowther  rose,  rolled  up 
her  knitting,  and  put  it  in  a  pale-blue  work-basket  which 
stood  on  a  table  in  a  far  corner  of  the  room. 

"I  suppose  you're  coming  upstairs  now,  David,"  she  said. 
"You  were  very  late  last  night,  and  ought  to  have  a  good 
long  sleep.  Good-night,  Bernard." 

The  doctor  was  sitting  in  an  arm-chair  reading  the 
Pall  Mall  Gazette.  He  turned  his  head  as  she  spoke,  and 
for  an  instant  the  eyes  of  husband  and  wife  met.  It  was 
not  often  that  this  husband  and  wife  looked  into  each 
other's  eyes;  now  in  the  man's  glance  was  a  question;  in 
the  woman's  the  answer  he  wished  to  find  there.  He  re- 
sumed his  reading  with  complacent  satisfaction. 

Upstairs  in  her  own  room,  with  locked  door,  Mrs. 
Lowther  sat,  still  in  the  grey  silk  dress,  and  suffered  the 
bitterness  that  Peter  suffered  after  he  had  denied  his 
Lord;  the  bitterness  that  must  be  suffered  by  all  those 
souls  whose  fineness  of  perception  is  in  excess  of  their 
moral  courage. 

David,  meanwhile,  was  recalling  the  evening's  incidents ; 
her  mother's  flushed,  disturbed  face  at  the  dinner  table, 


38  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

her  father's  with  the  protruding  under  lip  which  was 
always  a  sign  of  displeasure  or  contempt.  "Which  side 
do  you  take?"  Chance  had  asked,  and  she  had  answered 
on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  "The  weakest,  of  course."  In 
the  momentary  circumstances  the  answer  had  been  a  true 
one;  her  impulse  had  been  to  stand  by  the  distressed- 
looking  woman  at  the  head  of  the  table;  and  there  could 
be  no  doubt  that  that  woman  typified  feebleness,  while 
on  the  face  opposite  her  was  the  consciousness  of  strength. 
Yet  hitherto,  decidedly  and  always,  David's  sympathy  had 
been  with  the  strong;  feebleness  had  presented  itself  to 
her  as  a  fault,  futility  as  a  crime;  had  Chance  put  his 
question  as  an  abstract  proposition,  her  reply  would  have 
been  the  direct  contrary  of  that  to  which  she  had  been 
prompted  by  the  emotion  of  the  moment. 

On  the  low  soft  seat  on  the  hearthrug,  her  elbows  on 
her  knees,  her  chin  in  her  hands,  a  dim  idea  that  was  not 
yet  a  thought  took  filmy  form  in  David's  mind.  "Was  it 
possible,  perhaps,  to  admire  strength  and  to  love  it,  to 
desire  it  for  oneself  as  a  possession  and  weapon;  and  yet 
— and  yet,  to  use  it,  when  inherent  or  attained,  not  to 
procure  success  or  find  the  path  to  fame,  but  to  protect  the 
feeble,  the  un-strong?  With  a  natural  inclination  to  wan- 
der from  beaten  paths,  she  preferred  reading  the  Apocry- 
pha to  the  canonical  scriptures,  and  running  in  her  head 
were  words  from  Esdras :  "This  present  life  is  not  the  end 
where  much  glory  doth  abide;  therefore  have  they  prayed 
for  the  weak." 

"Well,  I  don't  intend  to  be  weak;  I  don't  want  to  be 
prayed  for;  I  want  to  do  something,"  was  the  final  out- 
come of  her  reflections.  "I  shall  insist  upon  father  letting 
me  go  to  the  Slade,  or  at  least  in  listening  to  what  I  have 
to  say." 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS  39 

Cranley-Chance,  on  his  way  home,  said  to  himself  that 
Lowther  was  too  fond  of  talking  shop.  "It's  all  very  well ; 
but  in  season  and  out  of  season — it  gets  a  bit  tough,  by 
Jove !" 

Shop  had  been  decidedly  out  of  season  to-night;  he  had 
met  a  pretty  girl,  more  than  a  pretty  girl,  a  girl  who  in- 
terested him,  and  he  had  been  in  the  mood  to  talk  to  her. 
As  his  hansom  sped  along,  the  thought  of  Miss  Lowther 
in  her  white  and  gold  dress  with  the  yellow  rose  in  her 
brown  hair  was  a  pleasant  vision  before  his  mental  eyes; 
and  he  too,  like  Sidney  Gale,  dreamed  dreams.  But  Gale's 
were  the  dreams  of  a  quite  young  man,  whose  youth  was 
gilded  by  chivalry;  and  Cranley-Chance  had  lived  through 
half  his  life,  and  the  ways  in  which  he  had  walked  had 
given  him  far  other  ideas  of  existence,  its  meanings  and 
its  aims,  than  were  those  of  Sidney  Gale. 


CHAPTER  VI 

A  WOMAN  waited  in  the  surgical  ward  of  St.  Anne's 
Hospital.  In  her  eyes  was  fear,  the  fear  that  lay 
coiled  about  her  heart,  causing  it  to  beat  with  quick  tremu- 
lous pulsations. 

She  was  a  new  inmate,  and  had  only  come  in  the  eve- 
ning before,  and  she  had  a  horror  of  "the  'orspital" ;  that 
horror  and  distrust  which  are  so  widespead  amongst  the 
poor.  Terrible  tales  had  she  heard  of  neighbours  and 
neighbours'  friends  who  had  entered  those  dread  build- 
ings hoping  for  ease  from  their  suffering,  and  who  had 
come  forth  maimed  instead  of  aided.  Some,  many  indeed, 
had  really  been  relieved,  some  had  been  cured;  but  it  was 
not  of  these  she  was  thinking  now,  though  indeed  she 
tried  to  think  of  them,  hoping  to  swell  her  courage  with 
the  thought;  her  mind  dwelt  on  those  others,  the  victims 
of  unnecessary  operations,  as  they  seemed  to  themselves 
and  their  friends. 

The  visiting  lady  for  her  street  had  pooh-poohed,  to  be 
sure,  her  accounts  of  the  goings-on  in  hospitals,  which, 
she  had  said,  were  the  most  directly  and  decidedly  bene- 
ficial of  all  the  philanthropic  institutions  of  the  country. 
Sarah  Jennings,  waiting  now  to  be  operated  upon,  could 
not  remember  the  words  the  lady  had  used,  but  she  recalled 
their  meaning,  and  tried  to  derive  comfort  from  the  as- 
surance it  contained.  Yet — the  thought  would  come — the 
visiting  lady  knew  nothing  about  it,  and  she  and  her 

40 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS  41 

friends  did.  Ladies  were  rich;  and  oh,  the  blessedness  of 
wealth !  To  be  able  to  lie  in  a  room  by  yourself,  with  only 
nurse  and  friends  to  tend  or  visit  you;  to  be  able  to  pay 
for  attention  and  skill  in  coin  of  the  realm;  not  as  the 
poor  had  to  pay.  Oh,  yes,  it  was  right,  of  course;  it  was 
justice,  if  you  got  medicine  and  nursing  and  doctoring 
for  nothing,  that  you  should  give  something  in  return. 
But — to  lie  all  but  naked,  as  Jane  Carter  had  lain,  and  to 
have  the  students  crowding  round  to  see  the  result  of  the 
surgeon's  manipulations;  to  have  one  after  the  other  com- 
ing to  investigate,  to  learn;  to  be  conscious  all  the  time, 
and  quivering  with  the  shame  and  the  tension  of  it !  She 
herself  would  have  nothing  of  that  kind  to  endure;  her 
trouble  was  in  her  face;  but  if  they  should  make  a  lesson 

of  her,  try  any  of  their  tricks It  was  all  very  well  for 

parsons  and  "sich"  to  say  it  was  ignorance  that  made  the 
poor  shrink  from  trusting  themselves  in  hospitals.  "Igno- 
rance !"  Sarah  Jennings  was  thinking.  "It's  because  we 
know."  And  thinking  thus,  her  fear  and  nervousness  in- 
creased. 

A  young  man  passed  down  the  ward;  something  in  the 
woman's  face  arrested  him,  for  he  had  seeing  eyes,  and 
his  residence  at  St.  Anne's  had  shown  him  not  only  some 
of  the  ills  which  flesh  is  heir  to,  but  something  also  of  the 
human  nature  clothed  upon  by  that  flesh.  He  stopped 
and  spoke. 

"Well,  Mrs. — let  me  see — Mrs.  Jennings,  you  came  in 
last  night,  didn't  you?  What  is  it?" 

"Oh,  sir,  it's  to  be  soon,  the  operation,  and  I'm  afraid." 

"No,  come  now,  there's  nothing  to  be  afraid  of.  Why, 
ulceration  of  the  skin,  that's  just  a  surface  thing;  the 
operation's  a  mere  nothing.  You  won't  feel  it  under  the 
anaesthetic,  and  you'll  be  well  enough  to  go  out  in  no  time." 


42  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

The  hearty  assurance  of  his  tone  was  comforting:  Mrs. 
Jennings'  face  relaxed. 

"Will  you  be  there,  sir?"  she  asked. 

Gale  nodded.  "I'll  be  there.  Don't  you  be  afraid, 
mother,  it'll  be  all  right."  He  nodded  again,  and  passed  on. 

Half  an  hour  later  he  entered  the  operating  theatre.  A 
large  number  of  students  was  seated  on  the  half  circle  of 
benches  which  sloped  up  from  the  operating  table ;  chatting, 
joking,  waiting  for  the  surgeon^  and  his  patient. 

"What  a  lot  of  fellows  for  such  a  small  affair,"  thought 
Gale.  "I  suppose  they're  hard  up  for  something  to  do." 

Had  Gale  looked  on  the  Notice  Board,  he  would  have 
seen  that  the  operation  about  to  take  place  was  of  greater 
magnitude  than  he  supposed;  it  was  characteristic  of  him 
that  he  had  not  looked.  One  of  his  methods  of  teaching 
himself  was  to  study  the  subjects  of  coming  operations, 
and  to  determine  from  that  study  what  the  operation  was 
likely  to  be. 

A  couple  of  nurses  were  present,  with  their  basins  and 
cotton  wool,  and  with  them  the  students  kept  up  a  desul- 
tory and  chaffing  conversation,  presently  to  be  hushed,  as 
the  operator,  followed  by  a  junior  surgeon  and  the  anaes- 
thetist, entered  the  theatre.  Gale  was  to  act  as  dresser. 

The  patient  was  led  in  by  a  third  nurse.  Her  face  was 
very  pale,  her  lips  quivered,  she  walked  feebly.  She  looked 
round  for  Gale,  and  found  him  at  a  glance ;  the  tall,  high- 
shouldered  form  with  the  slight  stoop  would  have  been 
easily  distinguishable  in  a  much  larger  group  than  the  one 
then  assembled;  and  Gale's  personality,  moreover,  was 
strong  enough  to  make  his  presence  felt  in  other  ways  than 
through  his  physical  characteristics.  He  gave  a  little  nod 
of  reassurance  when  he  met  those  searching  eyes,  thinking 
to  himself  the  while :  "  That  woman  ought  to  have  been  put 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS  43 

under  the  anesthetic  before  she  was.  brought  in ;  she's  half 
daft  with  fright." 

Sarah  Jennings,  now  that  the  dread  moment  was  actu- 
ally come,  behaved  with  resigned  passivity.  She  made  no 
resistance,  uttered  no  sound,  as  she  was  lifted  on  to  the 
table;  and  in  a  minute  the  anaesthetist  had  freed  her  from 
the  consciousness  of  her  surroundings. 

The  surgeons'  coats  were  off,  their  arms  bared;  the 
operator  addressed  the  students. 

"  Gentlemen,  I  am  about  to  perform  an  important  opera- 
tion, the  removal  of  the  superior  maxilla,'' 

The  superior  maxilla !  Gale  started  forward.  That  was 
an  operation  which  was  performed  only  for  actual  disease  of 
the  bone;  and  the  sore  which  defaced  the  cheek  of  the  un- 
conscious woman  on  the  table  was  but  a  surface  wound. 

"  Surely "  he  began. 

"Mr.  Gale ?"  The  surgeon  frowned  affronted  in- 
quiry. 

"Surely,"  said  Gale  again,  "for  ulceration  of  the 
skin " 

"You  will  allow  me  to  know  what  I  am  about." 

Gale  stepped  back,  biting  his  lip.  It  was  unheard-of 
temerity  to  remonstrate  with  Moreton  Shand;  it  would 
have  been  useless  hardihood  to  make  further  protest.  He 
folded  his  arms  and  stood  silent,  shaking  his  hair  out,  as 
he  moved  back,  and  forgetting,  in  the  effort  of  controlling 
himself,  to  smooth  it  down  again. 

The  operation  began.  The  central  incisor  tooth  was 
extracted  and  an  incision  made  down  to  the  bone;  the 
junior  surgeon  assisting  in  securing  the  larger  arteries  as 
they  were  divided,  the  nurses  standing  ready  with  sutures 
and  cotton  wool.  The  students  leaned  forward,  watch- 
ing intently.  It  was  indeed  an  important  operation,  a 


44  PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS 

difficult  and  a  dangerous  one,  and  a  great  deal  was  to  be 
learned  from  witnessing  it.  Shand  was  a  brilliant  surgeon, 
speedy  and  deft,  but  there  was  much  to  be  done,  and  it 
required  all  the  skill  of  Carter,  the  anaesthetist,  to  keep  the 
patient  under  the  influence  of  chloroform  during  the  neces- 
sary period.  To  maintain  a  condition  of  anaesthesia  for 
long  is  not  an  easy  thing,  and  in  this  case  the  difficulty  was 
enhanced  by  the  cutting '  through  of  the  palate  and  the 
nasal  and  alveolar  processes.  Carter  had  his  tube  well  down 
the  woman's  throat,  but  for  all  his  care  she  twisted  and 
wriggled  under  the  surgeon's  hands. 

Gale  found  himself  wondering  whether  such  movements, 
which  he  had  seen  constantly  in  animals  under  experiment, 
could  be  always  referred  to  reflex  action.  If  so,  why  did 
Carter  go  on  pumping  in  the  chloroform? 

At  last  the  cheek  bone  was  severed  from  the  bones  and 
processes  to  which  normally  it  is  attached,  and  Shand  was 
ready  for  the  lion  forceps,  so  named  from  the  fact  that  Sir 
William  Fergusson,  who  invented  them,  modelled  them 
from  a  lion's  teeth.  With  the  powerful  grip  they  afforded, 
the  operator  wrenched  away  the  loosened  bone;  then  came 
the  tying  of  the  maxillary  artery ;  the  plugging  of  the  wound 
with  cotton  wool  to  restrain  the  smaller  vessels ;  and  finally, 
when  the  bleeding  had  stopped,  the  joining  of  the  cuts  on 
cheek  and  lip  with  horsehair  sutures  and  hair-lip  pins.1 

The  operation  was  over,  and  it  was  a  complete  success. 

Still  unconscious,  Sarah  Jennings  was  borne  to  her  bed 
in  the  surgical  ward.  She  had  felt  nothing,  or  almost 
nothing,  of  the  action  of  knife  and  forceps;  but  she  would 
awake  soon  to  physical  agony,  and  to  the  knowledge  that 
she  was  maimed  and  disfigured  for  life. 

That  evening  Gale  spent  his  free  time  in  rapid  walking. 

'App.  2. 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS  45 

The  London  streets  had  long  been  alike  his  playground  and 
his  refuge,  almost  his  confidant.  In  some  moods  he  would 
fling  himself  into  the  whirl  of  their  life,  though  with  the 
spectator  element  never  entirely  eliminated;  in  others  he 
would  pass  through  their  crowds  aloof  from  their  gaiety, 
misery,  and  movement.  To-night  he  chose  for  his  perambu- 
lations one  of  those  quarters  which  are  both  bustling  and 
mean,  noisy  and  yet  dull. 

It  was  spring  now,  and  out  in  the  country  the  spring 
twilight  was  stealing  in  soft  wistfulness  over  field,  forest, 
and  heath;  here,  in  the  sordid  streets,  its  "sober  livery" 
was  changed  from  grey  to  drab ;  for  shy  stars'  that  showed 
in  the  shelter  of  growing  night,  were  flaunting  gas  jet?, 
flaring  from  coster's  stall  or  sordid  shop-front;  and  for 
the  song  and  call  of  birds  were  substituted  the  discordant 
sounds  produced  by  men  and  motors.  Gale  heard  and 
saw,  yet  neither  saw  nor  heard ;  ears  and  eyes  directed  his 
course,  but  the  crowds  around  him  were  as  a  moving  soli- 
tude, the  sounds  that  cut  the  air  as  a  surging  silence.  He 
was  not  really  in  the  streets,  though  the  space  and  the  free- 
dom of  them  were  a  comfort  to  his  consciousness ;  he  was,  as 
happens  in  a  dream,  seemingly  in  two  places  at  a  time,  yet 
actually  in  neither  of  them. 

The  two  places  in  which  Gale's  spirit  stood  were  the 
operating  theatre  at  St.  Anne's  and  John  Cameron's  sitting- 
room.  Only  the  evening  before  he  had  paid  Cameron  a 
visit,  and  words  that  had  been  spoken  during  the  visit  were 
saying  themselves  to  him  now.  Gale  had  held  forth  on  a 
subject  on  which  his  sentiments  and  convictions  were  not 
at  one,  and,  speaking  on  the  side  of  his  convictions,  he  had 
plumed  himself  on  his  logic,  and  reassured  himself  by  its 
force.  Experiments  on  living  animals,  he  had  asserted,  were 
a  necessity,  if  only  to  avoid  the  temptation,  if  animals  were 


46  PRIESTS    OF.   PROGRESS 

not  available  for  demonstrative  and  experimental  purposes, 
of  experimenting  and  demonstrating  by  means  of  human, 
subjects.  The  argument  had  been  suggested  to  him  by  a 
conversation  with  a  man  whom  he  much  admired,  and 
seemed  to  him  irrefutably  and  comfortably  sound. 

Cameron's  only  answer  had  been  questions.  "If  that  is 
so,"  he  had  asked,  "how  is  it  that  in  England,  where  some 
restriction  is  placed  on  vivisection,  there  is  less  experiment- 
ing upon  human  beings  than  in  any  other  country  ?  How  is 
it  that  in  Vienna,  where  it  is  triumphant,  women  in  the 
hospitals,  pregnant  women,  and  babies,  new-born  and  un- 
born, form  subjects  for  experiment?  How  is  it  that  in 
America,  the  champion  land  of  freedom  and  progress,  ex- 
periments are  performed  on  the  inmates  of  the  hospitals, 
the  asylums  and  the  prisons,  and  accounts  of  them  pub- 
lished in  the  medical  press?" 

Gale's  reply  had  been  to  disclaim  the  accuracy  of  that 
which  he  could  not  justify,  and  Cameron  had  replied  by 
giving  him  certain  references  and  telling  him  to  verify 
them  for  himself.  He  had  not  had  time  to  look  up  the 
references  yet;  but  there  was  present  to  his  vision  a  scene 
more  potent  in  effect  than  any  printed  record.  He  had 
seen,  with  his  own  eyes,  that  the  operations  which  in- 
structed hospital  students  were  not  always  for  the  benefit 
of  the  patient;  and  things  about  which  he  had  been  tri- 
umphantly certain  only  yesterday,  seemed  doubtful  and  ob- 
scure now,  as,  in  the  solitude  of  his  own  thoughts,  he 
rambled  from  street  to  street. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  dreams  with  which  Miss  Lowther  had  inspired 
both  Cranley-Chance  and  Sidney  Gale  were  destined 
to  remain,  at  least  for  some  time  to  come,  but  dreams. 
For  David's  fireside  meditation  after  her  first  meeting  with 
Chance  produced  a  very  definite  effect  on  her  course  of 
conduct. 

On  the  afternoon  following  that  meditation,  she  took  an 
omnibus  to  St.  John's  Wood  and  called  on  her  mother's 
friend,  Miss  Barker.  It  was  a  Friday,  and  on  Friday,  as 
David  well  knew,  Miss  Barker  balanced  her  books.  She 
glanced  at  her  watch  as  she  passed  through  the  little  garden 
which  fronted  Miss  Barker's  house.  "She'll  have  finished 
the  adding  up,"  she  said  to  herself,  as  she  rang  the  bell, 
"so  it's  all  right." 

A  few  minutes  later  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door  of 
Miss  Barker's  sitting-room. 

"Come  in !"  she  said,  a  touch  of  impatience  in  her  voice; 
for  never,  she  was  thinking,  could  she  gel  those  books  done 
without  interruption. 

The  door  opened  just  wide  enough  to  admit  David's 
head,  which  was  the  only  part  of  her  that  entered. 

"Doggie  dear,"  she  said,  "will  you  bite  if  I  come  in?" 

When  it  had  first  occurred  to  the  child  of  five  to  call  her 
mother's  friend  Doggie  because  her  name  was  Barker,  the 
idea  had  convulsed  her  with  merriment  and  delight.  The 
merriment  had  passed  with  time,  but  the  name  had  stuck; 

47 


48  PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS 

Miss  Barker,  for  some  reason  or  other,  WAS  pleased  with  it ; 
and  David,  who  used  it  often  on  ordinary  occasions,  in- 
variably did  so  when  deprecation  or  coaxing  seemed  neces- 
sary. 

"I  feel  like  biting,  for  you  are  my  third  interruption. 
Come  in,  of  course,  for  I  know  you  won't  stay  out.  But  you 
must  take  a  book  and  sit  quite  quiet  here  till  I've  finished." 

David  entered,  made  a  great  show  of  closing  the  door 
softly,  and  crossed  the  room  on  tip-toe.  She  did  not  take  a 
book,  but  sat  down  before  the  fire  and  folded  her  hands ;  the 
atmosphere  of  the  room  seemed  charged  with  the  fact  that 
she  was  keeping  wonderfully  still. 

Miss  Barker  glanced  towards  her  and  half  smiled;  but 
she  was  used  to  David  and  her  ways,  and,  without  taking 
any  more  notice  of  her  guest,  went  on  with  the  figures. 

For  a  quarter  of  an  hour  there  was  silence  in  the  room. 
At  the  end  of  that  time  David  had  forgotten  what  she  was 
playing  at  and  had  fallen  into  genuine  reflection;  Miss 
Barker  had  finished  her  accounts. 

"I've  done  now,"  said  the  hostess. 

"I  hope  I  haven't  disturbed  you.  I  have  been  quiet, 
haven't  I  ?" 

"Almost  obtrusively  so,  and  quite  unnecessarily.  Why 
didn't  you  go  to  the  drawing-room?  Mrs.  Greener  and 
her  daughter  are  there.  You  could  have  talked  to  them." 

"I  didn't  want  to;  I  didn't  want  to  talk  to  anybody  but 
you." 

"I  shall  have  to  go  and  pour  out  tea  soon." 

"I  know.    That's  why  I  came  early." 

"Well,  what  is  it?" 

"I  wish  you'd  sit  down  comfortably.  I  want  your 
advice." 

Miss  Barker  was  a  wide  woman,  broad  and  squat  in  fig- 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  49 

ure,  and  with  a  large  head.  Her  features  were  well  cut,  but 
were  too  strongly  marked  for  beauty;  her  hair,  eyebrows, 
and  eyelashes  were  mouse-coloured;  the  eyes  themselves 
were  pale  blue.  She  looked  the  sort  of  woman  whom  Mrs. 
Lowther  would  never  have  chosen  for  a  friend  and  who 
would  never  have  made  a  friend  of  Mrs.  Lowther;  never- 
theless the  two  women  had  been  close  friends  for  more  years 
than  David  had  existed;  to  David  Miss  Barker  seemed  an 
integral  part  of  life. 

She  sat  down  now  on  a  low  chair,  her  legs  rather  far 
apart;  her  eyes  were  attentive. 

"Well,  go  on,  child!  We  haven't  much  more  than  a 
quarter  of  an  hour." 

"I'm  going  to  beard  father,"  said  David. 

"Ah!" 

"This  morning  I  burned  all  my  sketches." 

"As  a  parallel  to  Caesar's  boats?" 

"Don't  be  sarcastic,  Doggie,  please!     It's  so  unkind." 

Miss  Barker's  answer  was  to  pat  the  girl's  hand. 

"I  burned  them  because  I  was  disgusted  with  them,  be- 
cause I  know  they're  all  wrong;  and  I  never  can  get  them 
right  unless  I'm  taught."  David  paused  an  instant.  "I've 
determined  that  I  will  be  taught ;  and  I  want  you  to  help 
me." 

"With  your  father?"    Miss  Barker  spoke  quickly. 

"No.  I'll  tell  you.  You  have  a  friend,  a  Mrs. 
Home " 

"But  she  lives  in  France." 

" — who  knows  a  lot  of  artists." 

"But,  my  dear  child,  she  lives  at  Lapelli^re." 

"I  know,  but  unless  I  get  right  away  I  ghall  never  do 
any  good." 

"But  Bertha — but  you  can't  leave  your  mother,  David." 


50  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

"That's  where  I  want  your  help.  I'm  afraid  mother  will 
— mind." 

"Mind?  Of  course  she'll  mind."  Miss  Barker's  tone 
was  indignant.  "You're  the  only  thing  she's  got.  If  youth 
were  not  completely  selfish,  you'd  mind." 

"I  do,  but " 

"Don't  you  see  how  lonely  her  life  is?  how "  Miss 

Barker  got  up  from  her  chair  and  stood  by  the  fireplace. 
"I  don't  think  it  matters  a  bit  whether  you  learn  to 
paint  more  or  less  well  compared  with  my  poor  Bertha's 
loneliness." 

"Anr1  you  talk  about  youth  being  selfish,"  said  David. 

"You  see  what  phe  is." 

"Yes."  David,  too,  got  up.  "That's  just  it.  I  do  see. 
It's  partly  why  I  want  to  get  away.  I  want  to  be  myself 
and  develop  on  my  own  lines.  If  I  stay  at  home,  never 
doing  what  I  want  to  do " 

"It  seems  to  me  you  have  your  own  way  in  most  things." 

"Only  in  little  things  that  don't  matter.  If  I  stay  at 
home  I  might  get  like  her ;  and  I — I  think  if  s  dreadful." 

For  a  quarter  of  a  minute  there  was  silence;  then,  "You 
will  probably  marry,"  Miss  Barker  said. 

"Mother's  married.  I  don't  see  that  that's  much  good. 
Suppose  I  married  a  squashing  sort  of  man  like  father?" 

"There  would  probably  be  ructions,"  said  Miss  Barker. 

"I  don't  know.  There  aren't  ructions  between  father 
and  mother,  nor  between  father  and  me.  Thaf s  because 
we  submit.  But  I  don't  want  to  be  always  submitting,  and 
I  believe  that  if  you  don't  develop  your  will-power  and — 
and  initiative  before  you  marry,  you're  done  for." 

"You're  arguing  from  a  single  case,  my  dear." 

"I'm  arguing  from  what  I  know,  and  that's  the  only 
thing  anybody  can  argue  from.  Not  that  I  blame  father; 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS  51 

I  don't;  I  admire  him.  I  admire  all  people  who  are  strong 
and  clever  and  get  on.  Only  I  want  to  get  on  too ;  I  don't 
want  to  have  all  the  life  crushed  out  of  me." 

"Grapes  are  crushed  before  you  get  the  wine;  and  your 
mother  is  very  sweet." 

"So  is  lavender  that  you  put  away  amongst  the  linen. 
Oh,  I'm  horrid,  I  know,  and  I'm  saying  horrid  things ;  but 
it's  been  a  sort  of  nightmare.  Mother  upeet  me  last  night, 
too.  I  used  to  think  she  was  born  like  that;  subdued  and 
giving  in,  and  always  knitting — it  seemed  to  me  she  must 
have  knitted  in  her  cradle.  But  something  she  said  last 
night  made  me  think  she  had  been  different  once ;  and  then 
it  came  over  me,  like  a  nightmare,  as  I  said,  that  if  I  didn't 
strike  out  while  I  was  young  and  strong  I  might  drift  into 
the  same  sort  of  state." 

"Tea  is  ready,  miss,"  said  a  maid  at  the  door. 

"Come  along,"  said  Miss  Barker.  "We  must  not  keep 
them  waiting." 

"Besides,"  David  continued,  "if  you  can't  help  yourself, 
you  can't  help  anybody  else." 

"For  the  moment,  my  dear,  you  can  help  me  with  the 
tea.  Come  along!" 

When  David  went  away  Miss  Barker  accompanied  her 
to  the  door. 

"There's  something  in  what  you  say,"  she  said.  "Tell 
your  mother  I  will  come  and  see  her  on  Sunday  afternoon." 

"You'll  help  me?" 

"I'll — yes,  to  a  certain  extent,  at  any  rate,  I'll  help  you. 
I'll  talk  the  thing  over." 

David  went  away  satisfied.  Doggie  was  always  better 
than  her  word. 

When  she  reached  home  she  found  her  mother  looking  out 
of  the  window, 


52  PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS 

"I  was  watching  for  you,"  said  Mrs.  Lowther.  "I  hoped 
you  would  have  been  back  for  tea." 

"I've  been  to  see  Doggie." 

"I  wish  you'd  told  me  you  were  going.    How  is  she?" 

"She  snapped  and  growled  a  bit,  but  she  seemed  quite 
well.  And  I  was  to  tell  you  that  she's  coming  to  see  you 
on  Sunday." 

Mrs.  Lowther's  face  brightened.    "I'm  very  glad." 

On  Sundays  Dr.  Lowther  visited  his  friends,  or  received 
them  in  his  study  downstairs,  and  his  wife  could  count  on 
having  the  drawing-room  to  herself.  She  usually  had  it 
altogether  to  herself,  for  callers,  never  very  plentiful  in 
Harley  Street,  were  especially  rare  on  Sundays.  But  the 
following  Sunday  proved  an  exception  to  the  rule,  for  be- 
fore Miss  Barker  arrived,  Professor  Chance  was  announced. 

The  visit  disconcerted  Mrs.  Lowther;  always  awkward 
with  strangers,  she  was  peculiarly  ill  at  ease  with  her  hus- 
band's friends,  and  she  wished  ardently  that  she  had  told 
the  parlour-maid  to  admit  no  one  but  Miss  Barker.  It  had 
seemed  an  unnecessary  precaution  when  no  one  but  Miss 
Barker  ever  came.  To  be  sure  she  could  have  obtained  re- 
lief by  sending  for  David,  since  David,  she  knew,  was  up- 
stairs in  her  own  room;  but  she  had  her  reasons  for  not 
wishing  her  daughter  to  appear,  and,  clenching  her  mental 
teeth,  she  set  herself  to  utter  every  platitude  she  could 
think  of  about  the  weather.  That  Professor  Chance  should 
think  her  dull  in  no  wise  disturbed  her ;  she  had  no  desire  to 
pose  as  an  entertaining  hostess,  and  the  duller  he  found 
her  the  sooner,  probably,  he  would  go. 

But  Chance,  in  asking  for  Mrs.  Lowther  instead  of  the 
doctor,  had  other  views  than  to  talk  to  an  uninteresting 
woman  about  the  weather,  and  presently  inquired  whether 
Miss  Lowther  was  at  home.  Mrs.  Lowther  hesitated,  but 


PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS  53 

she  was  a  bad  liar,  and  admitted  confusedly  that  David 
was  upstairs.  The  visitor  would  so  much  like  to  see  her; 
when  he  had  met  her  at  a  Private  View  lately,  she  had 
expressed  opinions  about  certain  of  the  pictures,  and  he 
had  brought  a  cutting  from  the  Academy  which  supported 
those  opinions  to  a  remarkable  degree.  He  did  not  know 
whether  Miss  Lowther  usually  saw  the  Academy?  Again 
was  Mrs.  Lowther  tempted  to  a  falsehood,  longing  to  de- 
clare boldly  that  David  read  the  Academy  regularly;  and 
again  timidity  betrayed  her  into  telling  the  truth. 

No,  it  was  a  paper  her  daughter  did  not  see,  and — yes, 
certainly,  if  Professor  Chance  wished  it,  she  would  send  for 
her. 

She  rose  and  rang  the  bell;  another  woman  would  have 
asked  Chance  to  ring  it,  but  Mrs.  Lowther  never  asked  any- 
body to  do  anything ;  and  presently,  in  answer  to  her  mes- 
sage, David  entered  the  room. 

She  was  genuinely  interested  in  the  cutting  from  the 
Academy;  it  was  flattering  to  have  one's  opinions  echoed 
by  a  real  critic — for  to  David  everybody  who  wrote  a 
printed  notice  was  a  real  critic ;  and  she  chatted  away  to  the 
professor  with  an  utter  absence  of  the  embarrassment  to 
which  her  mother  was  a  prey. 

After  a  little  while  Miss  Barker  appeared;  and  instead 
of  going,  the  professor  stayed  on ;  for  while  the  new  guest 
talked  to  the  mother,  it  was  possible  to  enjoy  a  tete-ci-tete 
with  the  daughter ;  and  the  addition  to  the  party  suited  him 
exactly.  It  was  David  who  sent  him  away  at  last.  She 
was  going  out  to  tea,  and  had  no  intention  of  breaking  her 
engagement  for  the  sake  of  talking  to  Chance,  even  though 
he  was  that — to  her — most  wonderful  combination,  a  scien- 
tific man  who  was  interested  in  art.  He  actually  had  a  col- 
lection of  Dutch  pictures,  and  he  was  anxious  for  her  opin- 


54  PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS 

ion  on  its  merits;  which  was  both  strange  and  delightful. 
Nevertheless,  though  he  wore  well-polished  boots,  and,  the 
day  being  sunny,  a  fancy  waistcoat,  he  belonged  to  the 
category  of  "father's  friends,"  and  could  therefore  possess 
no  real  interest  for  the  inhabitant  of  a  world  in  which  old 
age  began  at  thirty-five.  Accordingly,  when  the  hands  of 
the  clock  pointed  to  a  quarter  past  four,  David  rose,  and 
with  an  easy  directness  which  was  characteristic  of  her,  said 
that  she  had  an  engagement  which  obliged  her  to  go  out, 
and  that  she  hoped  Professor  Chance  would  excuse  her. 

The  professor  was  somewhat  put  out,  for  he  had  been 
congratulating  himself  on  making  a  good  impression;  but 
he  begged  Miss  Lowther,  with  a  bow  and  a  smile,  not  to 
run  the  risk  of  being  late,  said  he  also  had  an  engagement 
and  ought  to  have  been  off  long  ago,  opened  the  door  for 
her  exit,  and  took  a  prompt  farewell  of  Mrs.  Lowther. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

WHEN  the  two  women  were  left  alone  Mrs.  Lowther 
-   heaved  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"I'm  so  glad  he's  gone,"  she  said. 

"So  am  I,"  answered  Miss  Barker,  "for  I  want  to  talk  to 
you,  and  it's  talk  that  requires  us  to  be  quite  alone." 

Miss  Barker,  on  reflection,  had  arrived  at  the  conclusion 
that  there  was  much  to  be  said  in  favour  of  David's  leaving 
home  for  a  time,  and  had  come  prepared  to  espouse  her 
cause  from  conviction  as  well  as  loyalty ;  yet,  as  she  looked 
at  the  pale  timid  little  woman  beside  her,  the  arguments 
which  had  seemed  so  potent  in  the  seclusion  of  her  room  at 
Maida  Hill  seemed  to  melt  away  in  favour  of  David  re- 
maining with  the  mother  who  idolised  and  depended  on  her. 
Still,  the  thing  had  to  be  done,  and  Miss  Barker  did  it  as 
best  she  could,  broaching  the  subject  from  the  aspect  of  the 
girl's  inborn  needs  and  decided  talent,  an  aspect  which  she 
knew  would  appeal  both  to  Bertha's  maternal  pride  and  her 
unselfishness. 

She  was  prepared  for  tears,  for  demur,  for — to  begin 
with,  perhaps — unqualified  refusal  to  consider  the  plan;  a 
painful  scene  would  certainly  be  the  prelude  to  David 
getting  her  way;  for  that  she  would  get  it,  as  far  as  her 
mother  was  concerned,  Miss  Barker  never  doubted.  She 
was  therefore  amazed  and  relieved  in  about  equal  propor- 
tion, when  Mrs.  Lowther  pronounced  herself,  almost  eager- 
ly, in  favour  of  David's  departure. 

55 


56  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

"She  must  go,  yes,  she'd  much  better  go,"  she  said. 

Miss  Barker  stared  at  her  friend. 

"Why,  Bertha!"  she  exclaimed,  "I'm  astonished;  I 
thought  you'd — well,  make  a  great  fuss.  I  thought  you'd 
mind  so  terribly." 

"I  do  mind,  I  shall  mind."  There  was  a  choke  in  Mrs. 
Lowther's  utterance.  "But — but — I'd  much  rather  she 
went  than  that  she  should  marry  Cranley-Chance." 

"Who,  pray,  is  Cranley-Chance?    I  never  heard  of  him." 

"The  man  who's  just  gone.  He  came  to  dinner,  and  this 
is  the  third  time  he's  called,  though  she  was  out  the  other 
twice." 

"A  man  might  call,"  said  Miss  Barker  slowly,  "with- 
out  "  She  paused  reflectively. 

"He  wouldn't  come  to  see  me,  Bella,  And,  this  being 
Sunday,  why  didn't  he  ask  for  the  doctor?" 

"Perhaps  he  did,  and  he's  out." 

"No,  he  isn't;  he's  in.  Besides,  he — Chance,  I  mean — 
met  her  at  a  Private  View,  and  he  brought  a  paper  about 
it  to-day,  and — but  it  isn't  only  what  I've  told  you.  I  know 
he  wants  her.  How  can  you  think  for  a  moment  that  I 
shouldn't  know?" 

"A  mother's  prescience,"  said  Miss  Barker.  She  settled 
herself  in  her  chair,  her  legs,  as  usual,  rather  far  apart;  a 
lover  was  much  easier  to  deal  with  than  Bertha's  expected 
distress.  "Oh,  I  dare  say  you're  right,  Bertha.  But  why 
shouldn't  she  marry  him  ?  He  seemed  quite  a  nice  man." 

"He's  like  Bernard." 

"You  mean ?" 

"Yes,  I You  see  why  I  couldn't — why  I  would 

rather,  even,  that  she  should  go  away." 

Miss  Barker  inclined  her  head  slowly.     "But  David," 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS  57 

she  said,  after  an  instant's  pause,  "may  be  different,  may 
take  a  different  view." 

"She  does;  at  least,  that  is  to  say,  she  thinks  she  does. 
But  she  doesn't  know;  it's  only  because,  like  so  many,  she 
doesn't  know.  I  wouldn't  risk  it — I  wouldn't  risk  putting 
her  in  the  position  that  I  was  in  for — for  anything.  I'd 
rather,  I  say  it  truly,  Bella,  I'd  rather  never  see  her  again." 

Miss  Barker  was  recalling  David's  words:  "I  might  get 
like  her" ;  but  almost  immediately  she  shook  her  head. 

"Violet  and  you  are  altogether  different;  she  would  take 
things  differently.  Look  at  the  numbers  of  women,  of 
wives,  who  don't  mind,  who  are  happy  and  proud." 

"If  she  were  to  realise — as  I  realised But  why  do 

you  talk  like  that?  Why  should  you  argue  against  me " 

"When  I  agree  with  you?  Just  to  make  you  look  at  the 
thing  all  round.  Supposing  David  would  like  to  marry 
this  man?" 

"She  doesn't.  Isn't  it  proved  by  her  wanting  to  go 
away?  But  if  she  were  to  stay  here " 

"He  must  be  a  great  deal  older  than  she  is." 

"Oh,  yes,  he  is  five  orlsix-and-forty." 

"Men  of  that  age,  when  they  take  a  fancy  to  a  young 
girl,  are  very  persistent." 

"I  know.  And  Bernard  would  probably  like  it.  Bella, 
you  must  get  her  away." 

"What  can  I  do?  It  rests  with  her  father.  Do  you 
suppose  he'll  object?" 

"Sure  to.    And  you  know  what  he  is." 

"I  know  what  he  used  to  be,"  said  Miss  Barker,  with  a 
certain  grimness.  "I  haven't  seen  him — to  speak  to  at 
any  rate — for  a  long  time  now." 

David  came  home  that  evening  in  a  tremor  of  excitement. 
How  had  her  mother  taken  it — the  very  important  "it"  that 


58  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

Miss  Barker  was  to  unfold  to  her?  She  stood  with  her 
hand  on  the  handle  of  the  drawing-room  door.  She  shrank 
from  the  sight  of  suffering;  she  hated  to  give  pain;  and 
yet — to  stay  on  at  home,  to  give  up  all  idea  of  independence, 

all  ambition;  to  sink  perhaps She  turned  the  handle 

and  went  into  the  room. 

Mrs.  Lowther  was  sitting  by  the  middle  window,  looking 
out ;  she  did  not  knit  on  Sundays.  She  turned  at  once. 

"Darling,  come  here!  Doggie  has  told  me,  and  I  want 
you  to  go." 

"You  want  me  to  ?"  Eelief  and  surprise  were  in  David's 
voice,  and  in  her  heart,  yet  she  was  conscious  of  a  slight 
disappointment.  She  had  worked  herself  up  to  argue,  to 
plead,  to  console;  and  now,  instead  of  opposition,  of  tears, 
of  the  prayer  "Don't  leave  me!"  she  was  met  with  the  al- 
most eager  permission,  "I  want  you  to  go."  Coming  over 
to  her  mother's  chair,  she  found,  in  her  astonishment,  noth- 
ing to  say  but  "Why  ?" 

*' Because  it  will  be  best  for  you,  best  in  every  way." 

"But — I'm  so  afraid  you'll  miss  me." 

"Yes;  but  I  won't  think  of  it;  I  can  bear  it.  I've  been 
sitting  here  thinking  since  Isabel  went,  and  I  can  bear  it, 
I  know." 

"Mother,"  said  David,  "I'm  a  selfish  brute,  and  I  think 
I  won't  go." 

"You  must  go;  I  insist  upon  it." 

Mrs.  Lowther's  cheeks  were  flushed;  her  eyes  shone; 
David  had  never  seen  her  mother's  face  as  it  looked  now; 
something  of  the  youth  that  had  passed,  of  the  beauty  that 
had  died,  seemed  to  revive  in  the  animation  which  in- 
formed it. 

"But  supposing  father  doesn't  give  his  consent?" 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS  59 

"You're  twenty-one,  and  you  have  your  Aunt  Emily's 
fifty  pounds  a  year." 

"Mother!" 

David  could  only  gasp;  meekness  personified  preaching 
rebellion  took  her  breath  away.  But,  as  she  gasped,  her 
interest  in  her  mother  quickened,  her  sympathy  waxed; 
there  was  a  possibility  of  comradeship  between  her  and  that 
mother  which  she  had  never  before  even  dreamed  of  as  pos- 
sible. She  drew  a  footstool  to  Mrs.  Lowther's  side,  and, 
sitting  thus,  the  two  entered  into  a  long  discussion  as  to 
how  best  to  persuade  the  doctor  to  David's  views. 

The  result  of  the  discussion  was  that  that  evening  David 
entered  her  father's  study  while  he  was  smoking  the  cigar 
which  finished  his  day. 

"David!  I  thought  you'd  gone  to  bed.  What  do  you 
want?" 

David  was  feeling  uncomfortably  nervous.  Though 
courageous,  she  was  not  the  least  bold,  and  while  her  will 
was  strong,  her  nature  was  far  from  aggressive.  She  was 
determined  to  go  to  France,  and  she  would  be  all  right,  she 
told  herself,  as  soon  as  she  got  well  into  the  fray;  it  was  the 
opening  of  the  campaign  that  was  the  difficulty.  But  when 
she  fired  her  first  shot,  she  fired  it  straight. 

"I've  come  to  say  that  I  want  to  leave  home,  father,  for 
a  time." 

She  was  standing  by  the  round  centre  table  with  the 
medical  magazines  and  pamphlets  on  it;  she  put  one  hand 
on  the  edge  and  pressed  it  hard. 

Dr.  Lowther  took  his  cigar  from  his  lips  and  held  it 
between  his  two  fingers.  "And  why  do  you  want  to  leave 
home — for  a  time?" 

"I  want  to  learn  to  paint;  to  learn  really — not  to  play 
at  it." 


60  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

Lowther  looked  at  her  with  the  expression  that,  as  David 
put  it  to  herself,  made  you  feel  yourself  a  fool,  or  convinced 
you  at  any  rate  that,  if  you  did  not  recognize  the  fact  of 
your  folly,  Lowther  did.  The  expression  nettled  while  it 
abashed  her ;  her  colour  rose,  and  though  the  hand  on  the 
table  trembled  slightly,  her  voice  grew  firmer. 

"I  know  of  a  lady  who  lives  at  Lapelliere " 

"Is  that  a  centre  of  art?" 

"A  good  many  artists  live  there.'* 

"You  know  my  opinion  of  art  and  artists?" 

"Yes;  that's  why  I  want  to  go  away  to  study.  It's 
impossilbe  to  do  it  here." 

Lowther  smiled ;  he  was  not  displeased  by  the  rejoinder. 
David  smiled  too;  if  only  father  would  give  in  without 
making  a  fuss! 

Father,  however,  had  no  idea  of  giving  in. 

"I  consider  that  sort  of  study  a  pure  waste  of  time.  You 
know  I  have  always  set  my  face  against  it." 

"Yes,  I  know.  But  I  thought"— hesitatingly— "that 
perhaps  you  didn't  realise  I  was  in  earnest." 

"Oho !"  The  doctor  laughed  out.  "What  a  young  wom- 
an calls  being  in  earnest  is  not  a  very  serious  thing." 

David  came  round  the  table  and  stood  close  to  him.  "It's 
serious  with  me.  I  really  mean  to  go." 

"You've  got  very  pretty  hair,  David,"  said  the  doctor. 
"Ton  my  soul,  I'm  glad  you're  a  nice-looking  girl." 

"Cajolery's  no  use,"  answered  David,  smiling  but  im- 
patient. 

"If  you'd  been  ugly,  Fd  have  said  yes  at  once." 

"Then  I  wish — no,  I  don't.  But  please  understand, 
father,  that  I've  made  up  my  mind." 

"You  have?    And  what  about  mine?    Go  to  bed,  David, 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS  61 

go  to  bed !  And  look  here,  when  I  go  over  to  the  Brussels 
Conference,  you  shall  go  with  me." 

"But  that  isn't  what  I  want." 

"A  medical  man  knows  far  better  what  a  young  girl 
wants  than  she  knows  herself,  my  child.  You've  got  a  bit 
hipped,  and  a  little  change  will  put  you  all  right." 

David  drew  a  few  paces  away.  "You  won't  understand; 
you  won't  see  that  I  mean  to  go?" 

"  Suppose  that  I  do  understand ;  and  suppose  that  I  abso- 
lutely refuse  to  consent  to  any  such  nonsense." 

David  continued  to  look  at  the  doctor  with  her  direct 
gaze,  but  she  spoke  very  low,  and  there  was  a  falter  in  her 
voice.  "I  have  fifty  pounds  a  year  of  my  own,"  she  said. 

Lowther  sat  up  straight.  "You  don't  mean  that  you 
intend  to  go  without  my  consent  ?" 

"I  shall  have  to  if — if  you  won't  give  it." 

"If  you  do  I'll  cut  you  off  with  a  shilling." 

David  paused;  then,  "I  don't  mind  about  the  shilling," 
she  said,  "but  I  couldn't  bear  you  to  cast  me  off."  She 
came  and  stood  close  to  the  doctor,  who  had  risen  and  was 
standing  with  his  back  to  the  mantelpiece.  "Please  let 
me  go  without  a  fuss,  father !" 

"A  fuss!  a  fuss  indeed!"  Lowther  was  frowning,  but 
David  knew  from  the  tone  of  his  voice  that  she  had  won  her 
case.  "What  with  anti-vivisection  and  anti-vaccination 
and  socialism  and  women's  rights,  all  the  decent  people  in 
the  country  are  at  the  mercy  of  prejudice  and  faddism.  In 
my  day,  a  girl  who  dared  to  disagree  with  her  father " 

"But,  father,  I  agree  with  you  about  everything  except 
learning  to  paint." 

" — would  have  been  shut  into  her  room  and  fed  on  bread 
and  water." 

"I  might  just  as  well  be  at  Lapelliere  for  all  you'd  see 


62  PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS 

of  me  if  I  were,"  said  David ;  then,  thinking  it  best  to  take 
victory  at  the  flood,  she  kissed  her  father  quickly  and  fled. 

Bernard  Lowther,  left  alone,  lit  a  fresh  cigar.  "She's  a 
baggage,"  he  was  thinking;  "yet  I  like  a  woman  with  some 
spirit  in  her.  The  idea  of  telling  me  she'd  go  whether  I 
agreed  or  not !  The  cheek  of  it !  Well,  she  shall  go ;  she's 
won  the  right  to  it.  But  what  the  devil  shall  I  do  without 
her?" 

Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  David  Lowther  went  to 
Lapelliere,  and  for  some  time  to  come  figured  in  the  lives 
of  Professor  Chance  and  Sidney  Gale  only  in  the  region 
of  dreams. 


CHAPTER  IX 

SIDNEY  GALE  was  beginning  to  wonder  if  he  had  been 
wise  in  accepting  Cameron's  invitation  to  go  and  see 
him:  for  while  Cameron  interested,  he  also  disturbed  him, 
and  he  was  half  disposed  to  think  that  he  would  have  fore- 
gone the  interest  could  he  have  got  rid  of  the  disturbance 
too.  Gale,  casual  and  careless  in  many  ways,  and  with  a 
reputation,  won  in  his  student  days,  for  rowdiness,  was 
nevertheless  ambitious  for  himself  and  reverent  of  his  pro- 
fession; in  that  region  of  his  thoughts  which  remained 
unexposed  to  the  minds  of  his  fellows,  it  was  a  profession 
of  high  ideals  and  noble  action ;  while  he  spoke  of  its  daily 
tasks  in  medical  slang  and  callous  phrase,  he  was  convinced 
that  those  who  followed  it  were  alike  the  saviours  and  the 
servants  of  humanity. 

And  Cameron  had  instilled  into  that  fine-flavoured  cup 
of  loyalty  and  admiration  the  poison  drop  of  doubt.  To 
be  sure,  before  he  had  known  Cameron,  difficulties  had 
arisen ;  but  difficulties  which  he  had  been  able  to  overcome. 
Foremost  amongst  these  was  the  physical  and — as  he  told 
himself — sentimental  shrinking  from  the  demonstrations 
which  he  could  not  avoid  witnessing  during  his  attendance 
of  an  advanced  course  of  physiology;  his  instincts  had  re- 
volted, his  humanity  made  protest  against  that  which  he 
had  been  obliged  to  watch.  And  yet,  in  the  very  existence 
of  these  instincts,  in  the  very  force  of  the  protests,  he  had 
found  substance  wherewith  to  feed  his  idealism.  For  it 

68 


64.  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

was  splendid,  in  spite  of  distaste  to  the  task,  in  spite  of  a 
quailing  of  the  heart,  in  spite  of  the  selfish  rebellion  of  un- 
reasoning emotion,  splendid  to  constrain  oneself  to  the 
sacrifice  of  the  lower  and  the'  few  for  the  sake  of  winning 
salvation  for  the  higher  and  the  many.  Sane,  strong,  and, 
in  the  truest  sense  of  the  word,  unselfish,  were  the  epithets 
which  Gale  applied  to  the  doers  of  deeds  which  nauseated 
him ;  and  those  men  of  the  unshrinking  hand  and  seemingly 
callous  demeanour  were  set  by  him  on  a  pedestal  of  respect. 

And  then  came  Cameron  and  threatened  to  dislodge  them 
from  their  exalted  position ;  not  by  direct  onslaught,  which 
it  would  have  been  easy  enough  to  combat,  since  Paget,  in 
his  book,  had  demolished  once  and  for  all  the  false  preten- 
sions of  the  anti-vivisection  brigade;  but  by  questions  and 
suggestions  which  he  could  not  always  dispose  of  to  his  own 
complete  satisfaction.  Could  he  have  said  that  Cameron 
was  rabid,  he  would'  have  remained  undisturbed;  but 
Cameron  made  no  personal  accusations,  and  the  ideas  which 
he  touched  upon  remained  uncomfortably  persistent  in 
Gale's  mind. 

These  ideas  were  shaped  into  definite  misgiving  by  the 
operation  on  Sarah  Jennings.  Moreton  Shand  had  a  high 
place  in  his  profession;  he  sat  in  the  seats  of  the  mighty; 
he  was  an  oracle  in  the  region  of  opinion,  an  adept  in  that 
of  skill.  Such  a  man  was  above  suspicion.  And  yet — such 
a  man  could  act  only  from  the  highest  motives.  And  yet — 
what  the  devil  of  a  high  motive  could  he  have  had  in  taking 
away  that  woman's  cheek  bone?  was  the  question  in  Gale's 
mind ;  and  the  only  answer  he  could  find  was  the  obvious 
one :  the  motive  was  the  desire  to  instruct  the  students,  to 
stimulate  their  interest,  by  means  of  demonstration.  Shand 
was  popular  as  a  teacher ;  flocks  of  admiring  students  fol- 
lowed him  from  ward  to  ward ;  his  skill  was  spoken  of  with 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS  65 

enthusiasm.  Gale  had  a  logical  mind,  and  his  reflections 
made  him  uncomfortable;  more  than  uncomfortable;  the 
war  of  the  concrete  instance  with  the  enthroned  ideal  pro- 
duced in  him  positive  unhappiness.  The  unhappiness  mani- 
fested itself  outwardly  by  a  more  than  usually  casual  man- 
ner ;  so  much  so,  that  Hall  was  moved  to  remonstrance. 

"It's  all  very  well,  old  man,"  he  said,  "but  how  the  deuce 
do  you  imagine  you're  going  to  get  patients  when  you  set 
up  on  your  own  if  you  don't  take  things  more  seriously?" 

"Sufficient  unto  the  day,"  was  Gale's  answer.  "Let  a 
man  be  natural  while  he  may." 

"If  it's  a  man's  nature  to  be  an  ass,  the  sooner  he  changes 
it  the  better." 

"Can  the  leopard  change  his  spots?" 

"He  can  mend  his  manners." 

"Some  men,"  observed  Gale  reflectively,  "are  born  to 
advise,  and  others  have  advice  thrust  upon  them." 

"  Oh,  of  course,  if  you're  going  to  take  it  like  that,"  said 
Hall,  getting  up. 

Gale  pushed  him  back  into  his  chair.  "I'll  take  it  lying 
down.  Ton  my  soul,  old  chap,  if  you'll  give  me  lessons  in 
deportment,  I'll — I'll  practise  in  the  wards.  Besides,  you 
can't  go,  when  Percy  has  asked  you  to  tea.  By  the  way,  it's 
most  reprehensible  of  Percy.  Ah,  here  he  is!  Percy,  old 
man,  Hall's  been  criticising  you;  he  says  if  a  man's  an  ass, 
he  might  at  least  mend  his  manners." 

"Ass  himself.  What's  Mother  Deane  done  with  the  tea?" 

"I  should  suggest  inquiry.  May  I?"  said  Gale,  pointing 
to  the  bell. 

"For  goodness'  sake,  do!" 

Gale  vaulted  the  sofa  and  rang  the  bell. 

"Take  care,"  cried  Percy,  "you'll  disturb  old  Cameron." 

"Old  fool,"  muttered  Hall. 


66  PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS 

"In  a  world  of  fools,  the  small-brained  man  is  king.  Is 
that  why  you're  calling  everybody  but  yourself  an  ass  or 
an  idiot?"  said  Gale. 

"Do  you  call  yourself  and  old  Cameron  the  world ?" 

"Types  of  it;  and  jolly  good  types  too.  Hallelujah !  here 
comes  to  tea !" 

The  lodging-house  maid,  commonly  called  "the  actress," 
because  her  name  was  Siddons,  and  whose  only  acquaint- 
ance with  tragedy  was  that  engendered  by  the  oft-repeated 
connection,  of  her  own  small  body  with  a  very  large  tray, 
appeared  with  teapot,  toast,  cake,  and  the  various  items 
of  a  substantial  tea. 

"Jove !  her  part's  too  heavy  for  her  this  time,"  said  Gale, 
and  darting  forward  he  took  the  tray  from  the  trembling 
arms.  "What  do  you  want  to  go  and  bring  it  all  at  once 
for?"  he  asked. 

"Syves  a  journey,  sir,"  said  Siddons,  pleased,  panting, 
and  confused. 

"Shouldn't  care  to  be  cast  in  that  play,"  said  Gale,  when 
the  girl  had  gone.  "Act  one,  tray  for  breakfast;  act  two, 
tray  for  lunch;  intermezzo,  washing-up;  act  three " 

"Oh,  talk  sense!"  cried  Hall. 
;     "Hall's  not  interested  in  Demos,"  said  Burden. 

"Except  when  he  or  she  is  lying  on  an  operating  table," 
added  Gale. 

"I'm  interested  in  the  profession,"  said  Hall  stoutly, 
"and  it's  a  deuce  of  a  pity  you  aren't  too,  as  you've  got  to 
get  your  living  by  it." 

"Living's  a  poor  thing,  ain't  it,  Percy?"  said  Gale. 
"What  we  two  want  is  fame.  Butter,  Hall,  please.  Fame  ! 
that  last  infirmity  of  noble  minds."  He  leant  across  the 
table  to  Burden.  "Give  us  your  hand,  old  chap!  Well 
climb  the  heights  together." 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  67 

"It's  all  very  well,"  said  Hall,  half  laughing  and  half 
angry,  "it's  all  very  well  to  footle  and  gibe,  but — tell  you 
what  it  is,  when  I'm  at  the  top  of  the  tree,  you'll  be  strug- 
gling low  down  amongst  the  G.P.'s." 

"Mark  his  words,  Burdon,  mark  our  Edgar's  words." 

"Unless  you  change." 

"Unless  I  change."  Gale  put  down  a  large  round  of 
toast.  His  tone  altered.  "Unless  I  change !  I  hope  to  God 
I  don't.  If  I  do — if  I  do,  as  likely  as  not  when  you're  at 
the  top  of  your  infernal  tree,  Hall,  I  shall  be  manure  at  the 
roots." 

"What  the  devil's  come  to  him?"  asked  Hall. 

"Sidney,  old  chap,"  said  Burdon,  "what's  the  matter?" 

"Matter?"  Gale  made  a  grimace,  gave  a  gulp,  and  re- 
turned to  his  usual  self.  "  Matter  ?  I  dunno.  Something 
gone  wrong  with  the  works,  I  suppose.  Give  us  some  more 
tea." 

"What  I  think  so  absurd  about  chaps  of  our  standing," 
remarked  Burdon,  "is  that  we're  always  talking  about 
G.P.'s  as  if  we  were  miles  above  'em.  Now  ninety-nine  men 
out  of  a  hundred  begin  in  general  practice  and  ninety-seven 
or  eight  of  'em  stop  there.  I  don't  see  the  good  of  talking 
as  if  you  were  a  full-blown  specialist  before  you've  started 
at  all."  . 

"Well,  you  never  did,  old  chap,"  said  Gale.  "The  modest 
violet  isn't  in  it  with  you  for  lowliness." 

"What's  the  good?  I  always  knew  I  was  going  to  be  a 
G.P.,  so  what  was  the  use  of  swaggering?" 

"Do  I  understand "  began  Gale. 

"No,  I  don't  mean  you  especially;  everybody  does  it. 
There's  Hall,  now,  professes  to  look  down " 

"That's  different,"  said  Hall,  "seeing  that  I  don't  mean 
to  begin  that  way." 


68  PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS 

"Not  as  a  G.P.?"  exclaimed  Bur  don  and  Gale  together. 

"Certainly  not." 

"Then ?"  asked  Gale. 

"I  shall  wait  on  at  the  hospital." 

"Oh,  bottle-washing,"  said  Burdon. 

"Call  it  what  you  like." 

"Well,  I'd  rather  G.P.  it  than  that,"  said  Gale. 

"I  dare  say;  but  I  want  to  get  on  the  staff." 

"Of  St.  Anne's,  do  you  mean?" 

Hall  nodded.    "And  I  shall  do  private  research  work." 

"Study  animals  instead  of  people,"  said  Gale.  "Well, 
it's  all  very  well,  but  it  seems  to  me  a  man  ought  to  have 
a  foundation,  at  any  rate,  of  clinical  experience,  and  I  don't 
see  how  you're  to  get  it  except  in  general  practice." 

"If  you  go  in  for  the  scientific  side,  you  don't  want 
clinical  experience." 

"Well,  I'm  going  to  be  doctor  first,"  said  Gale,  getting 
up,  "and  scientist  after — like  our  friend  Percy.  Any  more 
patients,  old  chap?" 

"Oh,  I  haven't  been  doing  badly.  It's  a  piece  of  luck 
for  me,  of  course,  Weston  letting  me  have  a  room  in  his 
house.  You  needn't  turn  out,  you  fellows,  and  you'll  find 
plenty  of  smoke  in  that  jar;  but  I  must  be  off." 

"What  it  is  to  be  launched !"  said  Gale.  "No,  I'll  come 
a  bit  of  the  way  with  you.  What  are  you  going  to  do, 
Hall?" 

"I've  got  to  go  too,  but  in  a  different  direction.  Don't 
you  two  wait." 

"Launched!"  said  Hall  to  himself,  as  a  minute  later  he 
went  down  the  stairs  alone.  His  lip  curled.  "Fancy  calling 
that  launched!" 


CHAPTER  X 

WHEN"  Gale  and  Hall  each  received  an  invitation  to 
dine  with  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Lowther,  the  one  ac- 
cepted with  supreme  delight,  the  other  with  intense  satis- 
faction. David  was  to  have  a  sort  of  farewell  party  before 
she  went  to  France,  and  Percy  had  been  told  that  he  might 
invite  to  it  the  two  friends  about  whom  he  talked  so  much. 
Gale's  delight  was  tempered  by  the  knowledge  that  David 
was  to  vanish  from  the  world  of  possible  meetings  almost 
immediately  after  his  secret  hope  of  seeing  her  again  had 
been  fulfilled;  but  the  fulfilment  still  lay  ahead,  an  event 
towards  which  the  days  moved  on  golden  feet;  and  after- 
wards— well,  afterwards  the  deluge — and  the  profession  1 

Hall's  satisfaction  knew  no  such  impediment.  For  him 
the  doctor's  daughter  was  merely  an  unknown  girl,  and 
the  unknown,  in  the  shape  of  a  concrete  young  woman, 
possessed  for  him  none  of  that  mystery,  intangible  and 
touched  with  reverence,  with  which  young  manhood  of  a 
more  romantic  temperament  is  disposed  to  invest  it.  His 
anticipations  were  entirely  concerned  with  his  prospective 
host,  whom  he  much  admired  and  had  long  wanted  to 
know,  but  who  was  as  far  removed  from  him  in  sphere  as 
is  the  flying  moth  from  the  earth-bound  caterpillar.  And 
now,  merely  from  the  fact  of  being  friends  with  the  moth's 
nephew,  the  caterpillar  was  to  be  placed  on  a  bush  where 
the  moth  could  conveniently  accost  him. 

There  is  perhaps  no  profession  in  which  hero-worship 

69 


70  PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

is  greater  and  esprit  de  corps  stronger  than  in  the  medical. 
The  men  at  the  top  of  the  tree  are,  to  the  hospital  student 
and  budding  practitioner,  as  the  lights  in  the  firmament; 
and  the  noted  surgeon  in  particular  commands  their  ad- 
miration and  allegiance.  Later  on,  when  experience,  hard 
work,  and  perhaps  vicissitude,  have  increased  the  points 
of  view,  as  well  as  intensified  the  sight,  of  those  who,  from 
making  merry  at  the  base  of  the  trunk,  have  become  toilers 
on  the  lower  branches,  the  element  of  hero-worship  lessens 
or  disappears;  especially  if  the  toiler  be  ambitious,  and 
seek  to  rise,  for  then  he  finds  that  he  cannot  always  climb, 
but  must  constantly  storm  the  heights.  Yet  the  loyalty 
continues:  an  unthinking  loyalty  for  the  most  part;  one 
whose  chief  supports  are  prejudice,  habit,  and,  perhaps, 
something  of  the  subserviency  which  those  who  walk  year 
after  year  in  the  rank  and  file  are  apt  to  develop  towards 
their  leaders:  but  it  is  there,  a  weakness  as  well  as  a 
strength,  forbidding  criticism,  while  supporting  authority. 

In  youth,  that  which  afterwards  becomes  hide-bound  is 
alive  with  the  generous  enthusiasm  with  which  youth  gilds 
approval;  and  Edgar  Hall,  by  nature  neither  enthusiast 
nor  hero-worshipper,  was  disposed  at  this  time,  by  the 
mere  quality  of  youthfulness,  to  invest  with  a  halo  the 
men  who  had  achieved  something  of  that  which  he  him- 
self designed  to  accomplish. 

Lowther,  from  the  professional  point  of  view,  had 
achieved  much.  He  had  not,  perhaps,  added  to  the  sum 
of  abiding  knowledge,  had  not,  in  his  researches,  pene- 
trated to,  or  even  stumbled  across,  any  of  the  laws  of  being : 
but  he  had  demonstrated  certain  facts;  and  whether  those 
facts  were  vitalised  by  connection  with  fundamental  truths, 
or  belonged  to  that  surface  region  divided  between  the  mis- 
leading and  the  obvious,  was  not  inquired  by  his  peers,  his 


PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS  71 

profession,  or  the  public.  The  demonstrations  were  pro- 
nounced brilliant,  and  by  their  means  he  had  reached  the 
Mecca  of  medicine  and  become  an  F.K.S.  That  to  reach 
his  Mecca  he  had  crossed  a  desert  of  pain  and  death,  the 
pain  of  the  defenceless,  the  death  of  the  dumb,  was  one 
of  the  necessities  of  attainment,  and  caused  no  lessening 
of  his  elation.  He  had  taken  for  his  motto  that  axiom 
which  is  at  once  the  reproach  of  casuistry  and  the  glory 
of  experimental  medicine,  the  assertion  that  the  end  justi- 
fies the  means;  and  while  he  would  have  found  difficulty 
in  applying  it  in  the  case  of  the  starving  man  who  steals 
bread  for  his  children,  he  found  none  when  knowledge  and 
not  bread  was  the  end  in  view,  cruelty  and  not  theft  the 
means. 

It  was  with  the  P.R.S.  that  Hall  on  the  night  of  the 
dinner  party — the  night,  as  Gale  in  his  own  mind  called 
it — shook  hands,  and  not,  as  was  the  case  with  his  com- 
panion, with  Miss  Lowther's  father.  This  same  father, 
sanctified  to  Gale  by  proximity  to  the  rose,  was  to  Hall 
the  rose  itself;  and  he  had  come  determined  to  sniff  up 
as  much  of  its  scent  as  tact  and  the  capacity  of  his  nostrils 
would  allow. 

Gale,  in  his  dreams,  had  never  permitted  himself  to 
imagine  that  he  would  have  the  felicity  of  taking  Miss 
Lowther  down  to  dinner,  and  was  therefore  overwhelmed 
with  confused  delight  when  the  doctor  said  casually,  "Will 
you  take  my  daughter,  Mr.  Gale?" 

Cranley-Chance,  whom  the  doctor  had  elected  to  invite, 
and  whose  penalty  for  being  the  oldest  and  the  only  im- 
portant guest  was  to  take  down  Mrs.  Lowther — a  penalty 
mitigated  by  the  reflection  that  after  reaching  the  dining- 
room  he  need  not  talk  to  her — looked  across  at  Gale  as  the 
words  were  spoken,  and  the  eyes  of  the  two  men  met. 


72  PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS 

There  is  a  certain  antagonistic  freemasonry  between  men 
who  admire  the  same  woman;  their  identity  of  aim  is  re- 
vealed— or  betrayed,  rather — in  language  wordless  but  un- 
mistakable. Dogs,  concerned  with  the  question  of  suprem- 
acy, growl  when  they  meet :  men  do  not  growl — aloud ;  but 
a  wireless  telegraphy  conveys  the  defiance  of  each  to  the 
other.  The  momentary  glance  which  passed  between  Chance 
and  Gale  showed  them  to  each  other  as  rivals,  and  with  the 
rivalry  was  born,  on  the  part  of  Chance,  enmity,  on  that  of 
Gale,  distrust.  To  Chance,  Gale  was  a  whipper-snapper, 
dangerous  because  of  the  youth  which  he  scorned ;  to  Gale, 
Chance  was  a  man  whose  age,  appropriate  to  fame,  unfitted 
him  for  love. 

For  the  moment,  in  the  silent  contest,  Gale  was  the 
victor,  but  he  descended  the  stairs  with  David's  hand  upon 
his  arm,  less  proud  of  his  victory  than  diffident  of  his  good 
fortune. 

Yet,  though  diffident,  it  was  of  his  nature,  since  good 
fortune  had  been  given  him,  to  make  the  most  of  it,  and 
he  resolved  that  shyness  should  not  rob  him  of  the  precious 
hour  that  was  his.  He  plunged  straight  into  the  subject 
of  which  Miss  Lowther  had  spoken  at  their  first  meeting. 

"And  so,"  he  said,  when  David,  after  a  word  or  two  to 
her  right-hand  neighbour,  turned  towards  him,  "you  are 
going  to  be  an  artist,  after  all !" 

"I'm  going  to  study  painting,  which  isn't  quite  the 
same  thing." 

"No,  but  the  mere  fact  of  getting  your  way  about 
studying  shows  that  the  artistic  instinct  must  be  over- 
whelmingly strong  in  you." 

"Or  that  I  have  a  faculty  for  getting  my  own  way. 
That  really  is  why  I'm  so  pleased  at  going;  it  shows  me  I 
must  have  some  force  of  will." 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  ?3 

"Did  you  doubt  it?" 

"Horribly ;  and  to  have  a  weak  will  is,  I  think,  the  most 
dreadful  thing  that  can  happen  to  you ;  especially  if  you're 
a  woman." 

"I  should  have  thought  it  was  worse  if  you  were  a  man." 

"Oh,  no,  because  men  are  not  so  apt  to  be  sat  on." 

"But  they  are  supposed  to  stand  by  themselves." 

"I  should  think  it  is  not  very  difficult  to  stand  by 
yourself,  if  you  have  not  authoritative  male  relations  who 
push  you  down  into  a  seat — always  a  back  one." 

"There  are  other  forces  in  the  world  besides  male  rela- 
tions, you  see." 

"Oh,  but  you  can  fight  them.  Men  are  always  sup- 
posed to  fight  the  world;  it's  considered  to  be  to  their 
credit.  But  to  fight  a  husband  or  a  father " 

David  looked  up  at  Gale  with  a  face  of  amused  inquiry. 
Cranley- Chance,  watching  from  his  corner  of  the  table, 
caught  the  look  and  Gale's  answering  one  of  friendly  un- 
derstanding, and  in  his  annoyance  at  being  placed  in  a 
position  in  which  competition  was  impossible,  made  a 
movement  with  his  foot,  and  brought  it  down  with  some 
force  on  that  of  his  hostess. 

An  irrepressible  "Oh!"  from  Mrs.  Lowther  caused  him 
to  turn  to  her  with  a  perfunctory,  "I  hope  I  didn't " 

"Oh,  not  at  all;  it  was  only  my  foot.  It  doesn't 
matter." 

"I'm  so  sorry,"  declared  Chance ;  but  to  himself  he  said, 
"Confound  the  woman !  "What  does  she  want  to  go  putting 
her  feet  all  over  the  place  for?" 

It  seemed  to  him  that  the  dinner  was  very  long;  the 
girl  "on  his  other  side"  he  found  uninteresting;  and  in 
this  gathering  of  youths  and  maidens,  who  said  and  laughed 
at  the  silliest  things,  and  enjoyed  themselves  without  dis- 


74  PRIESTS   OF  PROGRESS 

crimination,  his  fame  and  achievements  seemed  assets  of 
no  value. 

It  was  better,  to  be  sure,  when  the  ladies  left  the 
dining-room ;  then,  if  he  himself  could  not  talk  to  Lowther's 
daughter,  no  more,  at  any  rate,  could  the  whipper-snapper ; 
and,  moreover,  Hall,  detaching  himself  from  his  con- 
temporaries, took  a  chair  close  to  Chance  and  his  host, 
and,  obviously  worshipping  at  their  joint  shrine,  some- 
what soothed  the  wounds  of  unappreciated  merit. 

The  professor  entered  the  drawing-room,  therefore,  on 
better  terms  with  himself,  if  not  with  his  rival;  and  here 
triumph  awaited  him;  for,  going  first  into  the  room,  he 
at  once  appropriated  an  empty  chair  by  David's  side,  and 
succeeded  in  maintaining  his  position  for  a  good  half  hour. 

David  at  first  cast  somewhat  wistful  glances  at  the  friv- 
olous group  of  her  contemporaries  who  were  laughing  and 
chatting  further  up  the  room ;  but  there  are  few  women  to 
whom  homage  is  unwelcome,  and  Chance's  homage  was 
conveyed  in  patent  form.  She  was  flattered,  too,  that  a 
man  so  noted  should  take,  pains  to  talk  to  and  amuse  her ; 
and  belonging,  as  she  did,  to  those  women  who  are  touched 
as  well  as  pleased  by  homage,  ended  by  giving  him  in 
return  her  full  attention. 

Gale,  whose  turn  it  now  was  to  behold  from  afar  the 
glory  of  his  rival,  gazed  on  that  glory  with  eyes  made 
humble  by  the  consciousness  of  his  own  deficiencies;  he, 
too,  withdrew  from  the  central  group,  but  with  no  design 
of  interrupting  Chance's  conversation.  For  that  silent 
little  lady  in  the  grey  silk  gown,  his  hostess  and  the  mother 
of  the  rose,  was  sitting  all  alone;  and  because  she  was 
small  and  timid-looking,  as  well  as  because  David  was  her 
daughter,  she  made  appeal  to  him,  and  he  took  a  seat 
beside  her. 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS  75 

Mrs.  Lowther  was  considered  difficult  to  talk  to,  but 
hers  was  an  unresponsiveness  which  did  not  disconcert  or 
discourage  her  guest;  instinctively  he  divined  its  source, 
and  having  no  shyness  with  the  shy,  talked  on  in  what  was 
almost  a  monologue,  till  the  little  self-contained  woman 
was  sufficiently  at  her  ease  to  make  him  some  reply.  By 
that  monologue  and  the  duologue  which  followed  it — for 
Mrs.  Lowther,  far  more  to  her  own  surprise  than  to  that  of 
Gale,  did,  after  a  time,  find  herself  carrying  on  a  conversa- 
tion with  him — he  won  for  himself  a  friend,  feeble  indeed, 
to  all  appearance,  but  of  undeviating  loyalty.  From  that 
night  onward  Mrs.  Lowther  was  his,  at  first  ineffective,  but 
always  staunch  supporter. 

With  her  daughter  he  had  but  a  few  words  more  before 
the  restless,  splendid  evening  was  at  an  end.  In  the  move- 
ment caused  by  the  leave-taking  of  the  first  departing 
guest,  David  and  Gale  found  themselves  side  by  side;  and 
for  five  minutes,  while  the  doctor  detained  Cranley-Chance, 
they  stood  in  a  half  solitude. 

"I  suppose  I  shall  not  see  you  again  before  you  go?" 
Gale  tried  to  make  his  voice  indifferent. 

David  shook  her  head  and  laughed.    "Oh,  no." 

"You  go  very  soon  ?" 

"To-morrow.  I  wanted  this  party  on  my  last  night, 
because  I  thought  that  mother  would  be — well,  upset." 

"I  see.  I  don't  think  you  said  how  long  you  were  going 
for?" 

"A  year  for  certain.    After  that — I  shall  see." 

"A  year !" 

If  she  had  said  ten  Gale's  face  could  not  have  fallen 
lower.  David,  as  quick  to  perceive  as  he  to  reveal,  could 
not  fail  to  notice  his  discomfiture,  and  was  touched  by 
that  which  it  implied,  in  the  same  way  that  she  had  been 


76  PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS 

touched  by  Chance's  admiration;  in  the  same  way  and 
no  more.  Gale,  to  her,  was  a  young  man  who  was  rather 
unusual  to  look  at  by  reason  of  his  long  legs,  his  thick 
hair,  and  the  curiously  ringed  irises  of  his  yellowy-brown 
eyes ;  who  was  sympathetic  and  friendly,  a  friend  of  Percy's, 
and  nice — it  was  her  own  word — to  talk  to.  As  a  lover, 
an  accepted  lover,  that  is  to  say,  as  a  possible  husband,  she 
did  not  for  one  moment  view  him,  any  more  than  she 
conceived  the  professor  in  those  characters:  neither  the 
one  nor  the  other  bore  any  resemblance  to  the  portrait  of 
the  ideal  man  whom  she  had  never  yet  met. 

Nor,  indeed,  did  Gale  think  of  himself  as  either  suitor 
or  husband.  As  he  walked  home,  with  the  charm  of  her 
presence  still  upon  him,  still  making  him  glad;  with  the 
things  he  had  said  and  the  words  she  had  answered;  the 
things  he  might  have  said  and  had  not  at  the  time  thought 
of,  whirling  in  a  confused  jumble  through  his  uplifted 
mind,  his  aspirations  did  not  reach  so  far  or  so  high  as  to 
touch  the  idea  of  any  return  for  that  which  he  gave  her. 
For  he  gave  her  worship,  and  one  does  not  expect  a  goddess 
to  sit  by  one's  fireside.  He  asked  no  more  as  yet  than  to 
kneel  to  her ;  but  he  wanted  to  kneel  in  her  very  presence. 

Space  and  time  were  very  real  barriers  to  Sidney  Gale. 
Lapelliere  and  a  year — at  least!  It  might  almost  as  well 
have  been  the  antipodes  and  eternity.  Yet  to-night  the 
last  few  enchanted  hours  were  warm  about  him;  and  he 
would  not  think  of  the  frosty  morrow.  The  morrow  would 
bring — if  not  the  deluge,  at  any  rate  the  profession;  and 
the  profession  was  splendid  in  aim,  and  act,  and  possi- 
bilities. But  to-night  its  splendours  were  pale :  he  did  not 
care  to  contemplate  them  as  he  walked  to  St.  Anne's. 


CHAPTEE  XI 

IT  was  summer   at   Lapelliere,  real,   positive  summer. 
David,  used  to  the  tepid  uncertainly  of  the  north, 
borne  straight  from  the  caprices  of  the  English  spring  into 
a  southern  May,  was  filled  with  wonder  and  delight  by 
the  steadfast  warmth  and  brightness. 

Mrs.  Home's  house — in  England  it  would  have  been  a 
cottage,  in  France  it  was  a  villa — stood  a  little  way  out 
of  the  town,  upon  a  low  hill,  which  seemed  lofty,  because 
it  was  the  biggest,  almost  the  only  one,  in  the  neighbour- 
hood. The  great  gates  in  the  high  wall  which  ran  past 
the  back  of  the  house  opened  from  a  grassy  lane  into  a 
space  of  garden;  a  narrowing  lane,  for  the  Villa  Kosalie 
was  the  last  of  a  series  of  campagnes  which  stretched  out- 
wards from  the  streets;  and  beyond  it  lay  the  open  coun- 
try. A  flat  country  it  is,  of  red  earth;  treeless;  covered 
in  the  summer  with  the  creeping  green  of  vines.  From 
Mrs.  Home's  garden  David  could  see  for  miles  around;  to 
the  far  line  of  the  Cevennes  on  the  right ;  on  and  on  over 
the  green  level  about  and  beyond  the  town  to  the  left; 
and  in  front,  across  a  seven  miles  space,  to  the  blue  of 
the  Mediterranean. 

She  stood  there,  in  this  garden  of  vines  and  fruit  trees 
and  flowering  shrubs,  on  the  morning  after  her  arrival; 
early,  when  it  was  still  possible  to  stand  out  in  the  open, 
and  when  the  glare  of  the  sun  had  not  yet  hardened  the 
lines  of  the  landscape.  It  was  wonderful;  vivid,  brilliant, 

77 


78  PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

glowing  with  light ;  and  she  would  learn  to  paint  it !  She 
would  learn  to  paint,  and — she  was  free;  far  away  from  a 
life  of  routine  and  coming  home  in  time  for  things;  of 
doctors  and  professors  and  rising  men;  of  science  and  ex- 
periments and  discoveries;  of  surreptitious  painting  in  a 
pretence  studio ;  of — of  knitting  (the  thought  came  shame- 
facedly) and  a  subdued,  half-plaintive  atmosphere. 

It  is  splendid  to  be  young  and  splendid  to  be  free,  and 
it  is  not  often  that  youth  and  freedom  come  together. 
No  wonder  David  felt  elated  as  she  looked  out  over  the 
gleaming  land;  no  wonder  the  coffee  and  rolls,  eaten  and 
drunk  under  the  vine-covered  grillage  that  shaded  the 
lower  windows  of  the  house,  seemed  to  her  incomparably 
superior  to  the  eggs  and  bacon  of  Harley  Street. 

Mrs.  Home  was  a  woman  whom  temperament  and  cir- 
cumstances had  combined  to  render  unconventional.  A 
widow,  and  childless,  she  had  overworked  herself  and  over- 
strained her  purse  in  the  cause  which,  attracting  at  first  her 
attention,  had  ended  by  absorbing  her  interest;  and  she 
had  come  to  the  Villa  Eosalie  to  save  money  and  to  seek 
health  before  returning  to  its  service.  She  lived  alone, 
imcompanioned  save  by  two  sheep  dogs  and  the  passing 
presence  of  a  woman  who  came  daily  to  cook  and  clean. 

David,  irked  by  the  sameness  of  her  London  life,  chaf- 
ing against  the  chains  of  custom,  and  longing  for  change 
and  freedom,  was  intuitively  and  immediately  aware  of 
her  hostess's  unconventional  attitude;  and,  relieved  now 
from  the  one  doubt  that  had  hovered  on  the  horizon  of 
emancipation,  was  prepared  to  throw  herself  heart  and 
soul  into  what  she  conceived  to  be  the  perfect  delight  of 
an  artist's  life.  That  delight  waned  a  little  as  novelty 
passed,  giving  way  to  the  monotonous  sequence  of  quiet, 
working  days,  to  the  discouragements  and  mortifications 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS  79 

of  apprenticeship.  For  David  found  that  she  knew  even 
less  than  she  had  supposed,  and  she  was  obliged  to  begin 
at  the  beginning.  Becoming  overalls  were  of  no  avail; 
an  artistic  setting  lent  no  impulse  to  correct  drawing ;  there 
was  nothing  that  added  to  her  knowledge  or  increased  her 
skill,  save  hard  work  and  concentrated  attention.  And 
hard  work,  failure,  and  endeavour  taught  her  humility; 
the  true  humility  which  is  not  the  mock  self-abasement  of 
wounded  vanity,  but  that  childlike  attitude  in  which  alone 
it  is  possible  to  enter  the  kingdoms  of  mind,  soul,  or  spirit. 
Working  hard;  living  a  simple  untrammelled  life,  which, 
while  it  was  unvaried,  was  yet  not  wearisome,  because  its 
monotonous  flow  ran  with  and  not  against  the  current  of 
her  desires ;  gladdened  by  the  warm  brilliancy  of  the  south, 
interested  and  eager,  she  gained  some  skill  in  the  art  which 
she  longed  to  master.  Mastery  she  never  attained  to,  since 
talent  and  not  genius  was  her  portion;  but  some  of  the 
artist's  privileges  were  hers,  and  she  was  free  to  enter  a 
little  way  into  that  wondrous  world  which  lies  behind 
the  appearances  of  things. 

The  freedom  of  that  country  is  the  artist's  birthright, 
born  with  him  in  the  inalienable  attribute  of  temperament, 
and  raising  him  above  the  men  of  muffled  ears  and  half- 
veiled  eyes,  who  see  only  the  physical  forms  and  hear  only 
the  earthly  voices.  Those  who  worship  at  the  shrine  of 
science  have  no  such  royal  prerogative,  since  the  scientist's 
way  is  the  way  of  the  intgllect,  and  it  is  only  the  great 
intellects  which  can  discriminate  truths  from  facts.  But 
the  born  artist,  be  he  never  so  poor  a  painter,  the  poet  in 
soul,  though  his  rhyme  be  faulty,  nay,  even  though  he  be 
inarticulate,  has  free  entrance,  if  only  to  climb  its  lower 
slopes,  to  that  high  mountain  whose  peak  is  in  the  radiance. 

After  a  week  or  two  of  life  at  Lapelliere,  London  and 


80  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

all  that  belonged  to  it  seemed  very  far  away.  Mrs.  Home ; 
the  two  dogs  whose  gaze  was  so  wistful  when  she  left  the 
villa  without  them,  whose  welcome  was  so  warm  on  her 
return;  Madame  Moule,  an  artist  who  lived  further  down 
the  Avenue;  and  Victorine,  the  peasant  servant,  seemed 
to  David  the  real  beings  in  the  world.  All  those  people 
who  were  paying  calls  and  going  out  to  tea  beneath  a 
grey  sky,  became  shadowy;  even  her  father's  ruling  per- 
sonality was  dimmed,  while  her  mother's  grew  in  insignifi- 
cance ;  and  Professor  Cranley- Chance  and  Sidney  Gale  were 
like  the  receding  figures  in  a  nearly  forgotten  dream. 

David's  absorption  in  the  present  was  perhaps  partly 
due  to  the  interest  and  admiration  excited  in  her  by  her 
hostess.  Mrs.  Home  was  unlike  any  woman  she  had  hither- 
to met,  and  her  views  of  life,  entirely  different  from  those 
to  which  David  was  accustomed,  appealed  to  her  first  by 
their  novelty  and  then  by  what  seemed  to  her  their  common 
sense.  Common  sense  was  not  the  term  which  most  people 
would  have  applied  to  those  views;  Judy  Home  was  looked 
upon  by  the  majority  of  her  friends  as,  at  the  same  time, 
a  rebel  and  a  sentimentalist.  Had  Dr.  Lowther  known 
more  about  her,  it  is  probable  that  he  would  have  refused 
his  grudging  consent  to  David's  plan ;  but  to  Dr.  Lowther 
she  was  simply  Miss  Barker's  friend,  and  Miss  Barker, 
being  an  old  maid,  could  only  have  friends  of  the  order 
of  the  tabby  cat.  Such  was  the  doctor's  reasoning;  and, 
though  he  disliked  Miss  Barker,  his  ideas  on  the  subject 
of  the  middle-aged  unmarried  woman  led  him  to  the 
assumption  that  a  friend  of  hers  would  possess  no  views  at 
all  save  such  as  were  either  harmless  or  futile. 


CHAPTEE  XII 

MRS.  HOME  was  not  well.  The  sun  was  very  hot, 
Tip  at  the  villa  as  well  as  down  in  the  town;  even 
the  grille,  thickly  overgrown  with  vines,  which  roofed  in 
the  courtyard,  shading  the  lower  windows,  did  not  avail 
to  thwart  its  strength;  and  the  dark  green  blinds  barely 
sufficed  to  keep  the  glare  out  of  the  rooms.  Mrs.  Home 
was  not  sure  whether  she  was  suffering  from  those  pierc- 
ing rays,  from  "a  touch  of  the  sun,"  or  from  what  she 
called  "French  smells,"  which,  though  no  worse  perhaps 
than  English  ones,  are  nevertheless  different  from  them. 
At  first  she  treated  her  discomfort  lightly,  but  when  it 
developed  into  the  restlessness  of  fever,  she  announced  to 
David  that  she  thought  she  would  perhaps  do  well  to 
summon  her  antagonistic  friend,  Dr.  Bellargue. 

David  encouraged  her  in  the  idea;  she  was  feeling  a 
little  anxious;  but  all  she  said  was,  "Do.  I  should  like 
to  see  a  living  paradox." 

"He  is  kind,  but  benighted,"  said  Mrs.  Home,  "kind, 
that  is  to  say,  to  me." 

"I  don't  know  that  it  sounds  satisfactory.  I  should 
have  the  best  man  in  the  place." 

"He  is  the  leading  man  in  the  place,  and  the  cleverest." 

"But  you  said  he  was  benighted." 

"The  heads  of  long-established  institutions  generally 
are  benighted ;  they  get  swamped  in  excrescences  which  they 
mistake  for  development.  However,  my  temperature  being 

81 


82  PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

over  a  hundred  and  one,  I  think  I  had  better  have  a  pre- 
scription, and  I  can't  get  one  without  a  doctor  to  write  it." 

So  Victorine  was  sent  to  the  other  end  of  the  Avenue, 
as  the  road  leading  to  the  villa  was  called,  to  summon  Mon- 
sieur Bellargue.  He  came  the  same  afternoon ;  a  short  man, 
of  brisk  intelligence,  and  with  that  air  of  confidence  in 
himself  and  his  methods  which  is  so  reassuring  to  most 
patients.  Judith  Home,  however,  was  unlike  most  patients, 
and  requested  information  as  to  the  ingredients  in  the 
draught  which  he  purposed  to  give  her. 

"The  ingredients  are  my  business,"  said  the  doctor. 

"Fully  as  much  mine,  as  I  am  the  person  who  is  going 
to  take  them." 

"Your  part  is  to  follow  out  my  directions." 

"Not  if  your  directions  comprise  the  swallowing  of  some 
poisonous  animal  extract  which  I  object  to  introduce  into 
my  system." 

"All  medicines  are  poison — in  a  certain  sense." 

"But  all  poisons  are  not  medicines — in  any  sense." 

"Why  do  you  consult  me,  Madame  ?" 

"Because  I  trust  your  natural  intelligence  while  I  dis- 
trust your  acquired  prejudices." 

The  doctor  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "As  to  preju- 
dices  !" 

Nevertheless  Mrs.  Home  got  her  way;  Bellargue  en- 
lightened her  as  to  the  component  parts  of  his  prescrip- 
tion; she  agreed  to  take  the  medicine,  and  doctor  and 
patient  parted  friends. 

"I  think  he  must  be  a  kind  man,"  said  David  later  on, 
"because  he  patted  Wuppums  as  he  went  out.  Rough 
backed  away  from  him." 

"Oh,  he's  fond  of  dogs  in  his  own  way — which  is  a 
hateful  one." 


PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS  83 

"How?" 

"He  likes  them  for  his  own  sake,  because  they  amuse 
him ;  not  in  the  least  for  theirs." 

"I  suppose,"  said  David,  after  a  moment's  reflection, 
"that  most  people  like  animals  in  that  way,  more  or  less." 

"More;  most  people  behave  to  animals  without  any 
sense  of  responsibility  or  duty  or  justice;  as  things,  not 
beings ;  things  to  be  petted  or  tortured,  as  best  suits  their 
own  convenience  or  profit." 

"Oh,  no!  There  are  few  people  who  would  hurt  an 
animal  willingly." 

"But  the  majority  will  allow  them  to  be  hurt,  and  lift 
no  finger,  stir  no  step  to  help  them.  I  despise  the  people 
who  let  things  go  on,  who  turn  a  deaf  ear  to  the  cries  of 
the  world,  blind  eyes  to  its  agonies,  as  much  as  I  hate 
those  who  cause  the  tortures  and  the  groans." 

"The  doctor  said,"  observed  David  tentatively,  "that 
you  were  to  be  kept  quiet." 

"If  I  were  a  man  and  you  were  a  boy,  I  should  say 

Never  mind.  But  it's  a  pity,  for  doctor  is  a  word  that  lends 
itself  so  admirably  to  alliterative  cursing.  As  for  quiet — 
what  is  quiet?  Are  you  more  likely  to  get  it  by  bottling 
up  your  feelings,  or  by  letting  off  some  of  the  steam  ?  Yet 
I  don't  know,"  Judith  said,  with  a  suddenly  reflective  air 
with  which  David  was  already  familiar.  "I  don't  know 
that  it's  wise  to  let  off  much  steam.  Steam  is  a  motive 
power,  and  if  one  lets  it  all  evaporate  in  words,  one  ends 
by  becoming  an  impotent  wind-bag." 

David  laughed.  "You  don't  show  much  sign  of  im- 
potence at  present." 

But  Judith  was  pursuing  her  own  train  of  thought.  She 
was  silent  a  minute,  then,  "I'm  not  like  my  friend,  Annie 
West,"  she  said.  "I  have  not  arrived  at  being  tolerant  of 


84  PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

all  sinners  and  intolerant  of  all  sin.  On  the  contrary, 
there  is  a  great  deal  of  sin  towards  which  I  feel  more  than 
tolerant — sympathetic  almost,  and  there  are  sinners  whom 
I  fiercely  hate.  I  hate,  for  instance — no,  I  despise,  which 
is  a  more  subtle  and  therefore  more  dangerous  form  of 
hatred — I  hate,  in  the  form  of  contempt,  the  indifferent, 
the  supine,  those  who,  as  I  said  just  now,  do  nothing  to 
remove  the  evils  which  they  know  to  exist.  I  hate,  but  in 
a  much  less  degree — because  they  are  so  ignorant  and  so 
stupid — the  merely  brutal.  I  hate  most  of  all  those  who 
link  sentiment  with  cruelty,  who,  sailing  under  the  flag  of 
noble  motive,  are,  in  reality,  the  pirates  of  humanity,  ad- 
dressing themselves  only  to  the  most  selfish  and  cowardly 
side  of  it,  debasing  it  by  an  appeal  to  the  welfare  of  the 
body  only.  The  sins  of  the  flesh!"  said  Judith,  turning 
her  eyes  from  the  square  of  paling  sky,  which  showed 
through  the  window,  to  David's  face,  "I  tell  you  they  are 
nothing  to  the  sins  of  the  spirit,  the  calculating  sins,  when 
a  man  says  to  himself  that  by  a  dastardly  act  he  may  achieve 
a  certain  result,  by  a  cruel  deed  he  may  gain  certain  ends." 
Suddenly  Judith's  expression  changed.  "I  forgot,"  she 
said,  "I  was  so  carried  away,  as  I  always  am  when  I  think 
of  these  things,  I  was  so  carried  away  that  I  forgot  that 
your  father  is  amongst  the  men  I — I  don't  love.  But  I 
can't  take  back  my  words.  For  the  disreputable,  the  outcast, 
the  vicious,  even,  I  have  toleration,  compassion,  yes,  a  sort 
of  sympathy ;  but  my  very  soul  shrinks  from  that  most  re- 
spectable, respected,  and  eminent  body  of  men,  the  vivi- 
sectionists." 

The  blood  rushed  to  David's  face.  "I — you "  she 

began,  then  rose  up.  "You're  ill,"  she  said,  "and  so — we 
can't — it's  impossible  to  discuss  things.  I'm  going  outside." 

Outside  she  went,  through  the  little  courtyard,  where 


PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS  85 

the  vine  leaves  made  an  early  twilight;  through  the  gate- 
way into  the  garden;  and  up  to  the  higher  ground  where 
sight  had  play  over  many  miles  of  the  softened  landscape, 
at  rest  after  the  glow  and  fever  of  the  day. 

For  some  minutes  she  stood  and  looked,  seeing  nothing 
save  the  width  of  its  expanse,  tingling  through  all  her 
being  with  the  revulsion  of  feeling  created  by  Mrs.  Home's 
last  words.  For,  until  those  final  sentences,  David  had 
been  in  full  accord  with  her;  in  the  abstract,  all  that 
Judith  had  said  had  found  impulsive  echo  in  her  young, 
eager  heart;  as  she  listened,  she  had  felt  within  herself  a 
horror  and  a  hatred  of  all  that  was  mean  and  cowardly 
and  cruel.  And  then,  when  suddenly  it  had  become  clear 
to  her  against  whom  Judith's  attack  was  mainly  directed, 
who  were  the  men  whom  she  held  in  detestation,  the  shock 
that  had  resulted  from  the  impact  of  abstract  right  with 
accepted  formula?  had  plunged  her  into  a  state  of  distressed 
confusion,  in  which  indignation  and  pain  sought  for  the 
uppermost  place.  She  clung  to  the  indignation,  because 
to  be  angry  with  Mrs.  Home  was  a  sort  of  salve  to  the  pain 
and  doubt  which  underlay  it.  Father!  who,  if  not  her 
ideal  of  what  a  man  might  be,  was  still  her  hero  in  the  world 
of  men  as  she  knew  them !  Father !  to  be  classed  amongst 
the — what  was  it  that  accusing  voice  had  said? — the 
pirates  of  humanity!  Father,  who  would  not — she 
had  so  often  heard  him  say  it — who  would  not  even  hurt  a 
fly,  to  be  denounced  as  cruel !  Oh,  it  was  shameful  of  Mrs. 
Home,  shameful!  She  did  not,  she  could  not,  know  the 
men  of  whom  she  spoke;  she 

A  gleam  of  joy,  of  triumph  and  consolation  darted  into 
David's  troubled  mind.  Of  course  Mrs.  Home  did  not 
know  what  she  was  talking  about.  Had  David  not  often 
heard  her  father  declaim  against  the  people  who  wrote,  who 


86  PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

preached,  who  agitated,  in  ignorance,  in  blindness  and 
prejudice,  against  the  splendid  work  of  self-sacrificing 
scientists?  Mrs.  Home  belonged,  it  appeared,  she  must 
belong,  to  that  body  of  the  feebly  sentimental,  the  falsely 
humanitarian,  whom  David  from  her  youth  up  had  been 
taught  to  despise.  In  the  doctor's  household  anti-vivisec- 
tionist  was  a  term  of  contemptuous  reproach ;  every  member 
of  it 

Stop !  What  was  it  that  had  been  said,  that  evening 
at  the  dinner-table,  the  first  time  she  had  ever  seen  Cranley- 
Chance  ?  She  had  been  far  away,  dreaming,  and  had  waked 
up  just  in  time.  What  was  it  her  mother  had  said?  Oh, 
yes,  about  the  serums.  And  what  had  she  meant  by  saying 
it?  To  David  it  had  never  occurred  till  now  to  go  below 
the  fact  that,  for  some  unaccountable  reason,  Mrs.  Lowther 
had  audibly  differed  from  the  doctor.  But  now!  What 

was  the  reason  that  had  made  her  mother  so  bold  as  to 

She  ran  through  the  ensuing  scene  in  the  drawing-room — 
Mrs.  Lowther's  words.  Something  had  possessed  her,  she 
said,  a  ghost  of  the  past.  That  threw  no  light  upon  her 
action,  seeing  that  David  had  not  succeeded  in  identifying 
the  ghost.  Nor  did  those  other  words  help,  about  the 
dropped  stitches;  nor  those How  suddenly  passion- 
ate the  usually  calm  voice  had  become,  when  her  mother  had 
adjured  her  to  cling  to  her  true  beliefs !  Back  to  the  din- 
ner-table went  David's  mind.  "Your  mother  ig  fighting," 
Cranley-Chance  had  said,  "the  cause  of  the  sentimentalists." 

Surely — oh,  no!  Yet To  be  sure,  David  had  been 

disposed  to  look  upon  her  mother's  intelligence  as  no 
stronger  than  her  character;  but  even  so 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  Victorine,  "supper  is  ready,  and 
Madame  awaits  the  rice  and  milk  which  the  doctor  has 
ordered  her." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

I  SHALL  leave  St.  Anne's,"  said  Hall,  "as  soon  as  I've 
done  my  time." 

He  and  Burdon  were  walking  down  Oxford  Street  to- 
gether, and  Burdon  turned  his  head  with  a  quick  movement 
of  surprise. 

"Why,  I  thought  you  said "  he  began. 

"So  I  did,  but  I've  changed  my  mind.  Only  as  to  details, 
though — only  as  to  that  particular  hospital.  I  shall  attach 
myself  to  St.  Giles's." 

"That's  where  Uncle  Bernard  is." 

"Precisely;  that's  why  I'm  going  there." 

"Just  the  reason  why  I  should  keep  away;  there's  the 
difference  between  us." 

"The  difference  between  us  is  that  you're  an  ass  and  I'm 
a  wise  man." 

"He  always  gives  me  a  sort  of  Tommy-make-room-for 
your-uncle  sort  of  feeling.  Never  quite  at  my  ease  with 
him." 

"That's  your  fault,  I  should  say.  Besides,  what's  the 
odds?  If  an  uncle's  supposed  to  lord  it  over  you  a  bit, 
he's  supposed  also  to  give  you  tips.  Well,  I  mean  to  get 
tips  out  of  Lowther." 

"7  never  did." 

"I  don't  mean  half-crowns." 

"No,  I  didn't  suppose  you  did.  I'm  not  quite  such  an 
ass  as  you  take  me  for,  Hall.  But  when  I  did  mean  half- 

87 


88  PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS 

crowns,  it  never  came  off — except  once,  and  then  it  was  a 
florin.  I've  changed  since  then,  but  I  don't  know  that 
Uncle  B.  has." 

"Yet  he's  a  generous  man.  Look  at  his  donation  to  the 
Cancer  Research." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know.  Yes,  in  a  big  sort  of  way  he'll  do 
things  now  and  again;  but  it's  generally  Funds.  Now, 
I'm  not  a  Fund,  and  what  I  like  is  a  chap  who'll  stand 
me  a  dinner." 

"What  I  like  is  a  chap  who'll  tell  me  what  I  want  to 
know;  and  if  you  don't  choose  to  wear  the  shoes  circum- 
stances have  put  in  your  way,  why,  I  mean  to  put  'em 
on/' 

"Oh,  put  'em  on,  by  all  means;  only  hope  they'll  fit 
you  better  than  they  do  me." 

"I'll  make  'em  fit— till  I  get  into  boots." 

"By  which  I  suppose  you  mean  an  appointment.  I  don't 
know  whether  the  uncle's  good  for  much  in  that  direction." 

"He  has  helped  men — when  he  sees  they  mean  business — 
and  why  not  me?" 

"Oh,  I  dare  say."  Burdon  spoke  abstractedly.  "I'm 
thinking  of  making  a  change,  too,"  he  announced  presently. 

"You?    What?" 

"Well,  I  doubt  whether  I  shall  do  much  good  where  I 
am." 

Hall,  in  full  agreement  with  the  statement,  was  dis- 
creetly silent,  and  Percy  went  on. 

"I've  been  thinking  things  over,"  he  said,  "and  a  G.P. 
beginning  in  London  hasn't  very  much  of  a  chance,  you 
know." 

"Always  said  so." 

"Unless  he's  got  interest  or  is  a  shining  light.  Now,  I'm 
not  one  and  haven't  got  t'other." 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS  89 

'Again  Hall  mentally  agreed.  What  he  said  was,  "Not 
much  interest,  I  suppose." 

"Barring  the  uncle,  and  as  he  doesn't  believe  in  me,  it's 
not  much  good.  Well,  in  the  country,  or  a  provincial 
town " 

"Lord !"  said  Hall  to  himself. 

" — a  chap's  got  more  of  a  field.  So  many  of  those 
country  chaps  grow  into  out-of-date  fogeys;  and  if  you've 
got  the  modern  ideas  and  keep  abreast  of  the  times,  and 
all  that,  it  seems  to  me  you  might  make  a  deuced  good 
thing  of  it." 

"Yes,"  said  Hall  slowly,  "yes.  If  you  get  the  right  man- 
ner, old  chap." 

"Oh,  I'll  pick  it  up,"  laughed  Percy.  "By  the  time  I've 
distributed  pills  and  draughts  to  all  the  old  ladies,  I'll  have 
got  it,  you  bet.  Tell  you  what  it  is,  old  man,  dramatic 
instinct's  half  the  battle  in  our  trade." 

"Have  you  got  dramatic  instinct?" 

"Enough  to  play  the  part,  I  fancy." 

"The  part  of  a  country  G.P. !"  thought  Hall  contemptu- 
ously. "It  don't  take  much." 

"If  I  only  had  Gale's  brains,"  Percy  went  on. 

Hall  was  nettled ;  he  thought  himself  much  cleverer  than 
Gale. 

"If  I  had  Sidney's  brains,  I'd  stay  in  London  and  risk  it." 

"Gale's  a  rotter,"  said  Hall  testily.  "I've  said  it  to  him- 
self, and  I  say  it  to  you.  He'll  never  do  any  good." 

"Don't  agree.    I  believe  in  old  Sidney." 

"He's  such  a  wild  chap." 

"Oh,  he'll  settle  down;  there's  no  harm  in  him." 

"I  don't  mean  rowdiness;  I  mean  in  his  ideas.  Sort  of 
fellow  who  might  take  up  a  fad  any  day  and  stick  to  it." 

"He'll  settle  down,"  said  Burdon  again. 


90  PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS 

"Well,  we'll  see;  but  I  doubt  it." 

If  the  two  young  men  could  have  seen  into  Gale's  mind 
at  this  time,  the  triumph  would  have  been  with  Burdon ;  for 
Gale,  after  a  period  of  restless  indecision,  had  determined  to 
put  away  his  doubts  and  follow  his  profession  steadily,  ac- 
cording to  the  canons  which  that  profession  laid  down.  The 
profession  was  a  noble  one,  composed  in  the  main  of  noble- 
minded  men;  its  methods  and  practices,  agreed  upon  by  a 
consensus  of  opinion,  must,  in  the  main,  be  noble,  too.  So 
he  reasoned ;  and  that  there  were  men  in  it  who  might  fall 
below  its  standard  of  high  aim  and  action,  who  might  abuse 
its  methods  and  possibly  their  own  opportunities,  seemed  to 
him  almost  an  argument  in  favour  of  his  thesis,  since  it  is 
an  accepted  axiom  that  the  exception  proves  the  rule.  So 
he  degraded  certain  men,  Moreton  Shand  amongst  them, 
from  a  share  in  his  esteem,  and  welded  the  unknown  units 
of  the  profession  into  a  corporate  and  glorious  body  which 
he  placed  upon  a  throne  of  admiration. 

This  done,  the  chamber  of  his  convictions  swept  and 
garnished,  and  the  mind  which  cherished  them  at  ease  with 
itself,  there  remained  but  one  other  step  between  him  and 
complete  serenity;  he  must  break  off  his  intimacy  with 
Cameron.  The  recognition  of  such  a  necessity  cost  him 
a  pang  and  a  qualm ;  a  pang  because  the  loosening  of  the 
tie  would  be  a  distress  to  himself ;  a  qualm  because  he  feared 
it  might  be  a  distress  to  Cameron.  Yet  it  must  be  done,  he 
felt,  if  he  were  not  to  be  drawn  aside  from  the  path  he  had 
determined  to  walk  in.  Cameron's  personality  interested 
him ;  his  ideas  stimulated  and  appealed  to  him ;  after  a  talk 
in  the  ugly  dining-room  Gale  would  go  away  with  flaming 
cheeks,  tense  mind,  and  a  brain  filled  with  suggestive 
thoughts.  But  the  thoughts  led  along  avenues  which  ran  at 
right  angles  with  the  road  he  meant  to  tread.  Speculative 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS  91 

philosophy  and  Utopian  ideals  opened  out  entrancing  fields 
for  the  poet  and  the  dreamer,  but  must  be  shut  away  from 
the  vision  of  a  man  whose  daily  necessity  was  to  earn  his 
bread,  and  whose  cherished  aim  was  to  help  the  world  in  a 
practical  way.  It  did  not  occur  to  Gale  that  that  very  aim 
was  a  dream,  so  long  as  it  remained  unaccomplished ;  that 
all  plans  and  hopes  and  ambitions  are  but  dreams,  and  must 
be  conceived  as  dreams,  ere  they  can  be  born  as  realities; 
and  that  the  only  difference  between  the  dreams  men  fash- 
ion is  that  some  men  have  a  loftier  and  so  a  wider  vision, 
and,  seeing  upward  and  afar  beyond  the  sight  of  the  self- 
bound  eye,  declare  the  possibility  and  strive  after  the  attain- 
ment of  conditions  unperceived  by  the  bulk  of  the  race. 

But  to  do  what  Gale  meant  to  do  was  not  easy.  To  drop 
the  friendship  with  Cameron  altogether  would  be  simple 
enough ;  but  Gale  could  not  brng  himself  so  to  hurt — as  he 
knew  such  action  would  hurt — the  man  who  had  been  kind 
to  him.  Yet  to  diminish  the  intimacy  while  maintaining 
the  friendship  seemed  almost  impossible.  He  tried  leaving 
longer  intervals  between  his  visits,  and  then  found  himself, 
as  soon  as  he  was  in  Cameron's  room,  apologising  for  not 
having  come  before.  At  last  he  made  up  his  mind  that  the 
only  thing  to  do  was,  as  he  put  it  to  himself,  to  tell 
Cameron  straight. 

The  task  seemed  more  difficult  in  the  performance  than 
it  had  appeared  in  contemplation.  It  was  all  very  well  to 
take  his  courage  in  both  hands  and  go  boldly  to  call  on 
Cameron;  but  it  was  disconcerting  to  receive  a  hearty 
welcome;  to  detect  no  shadow  of  resentment  at  the  length 
of  time  that  had  elapsed  since  his  last  visit,  in  either  the 
word  or  the  manner  of  his  host ;  to  be  pushed  into  a  chair 
and  have  a  tobacco  jar  placed  at  his  elbow. 

Gale,  in  his  embarrassment,  began  by  saying  he  would 


92  PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

not  smoke,  and  Cameron  eyed  him  keenly.  Something 
was  coming;  but  what?  He  had  not  long  to  wait,  for 
Gale,  more  straightforward  than  diplomatic,  soon  plunged 
into  what  he  had  to  say. 

The  older  man  listened,  at  first  puzzled  and  uncompre- 
hending ;  hut  as  soon  as  he  saw  the  younger  man's  drift,  he 
did  his  best  to  help  him  out. 

"It  comes  to  this,  doesn't  it,  laddie,"  he  said,  when 
Gale  paused,  stumbling  in  speech  and  crimson  in  the  face, 
"that  the  things  I  say  jar  with  the  views  you  want  to 
hold,  and  you  can't  find  room  for  both  ?" 

"I — I  suppose  so,"  said  Gale  with  a  gulp. 

"And  so,  as  you've  bound  yourself  to  the  one  set  of 
views,  you  must  give  up  considering  the  others." 

"Ye — yes — though  it  sounds  deuced  narrow." 

"It's  almost  too  naive  to  be  narrow." 

"And  so — ungrateful." 

"No,  I  understand;  and  I'm  glad  you  were  honest  with 
me." 

"You  see,  it's  really  a  compliment." 

Gale's  hair  by  this  time  was  rampant;  his  eyes  were 
wistful. 

"To  be  honest?  Yes,  I  know  it  is.  I  should  have  been 
hurt  if  you  had  slacked  off  without  a  word." 

"No.  I  didn't  mean  that';  meant  the  slacking  off.  It's 
because  you  have  the  power  to  affect  me  so,  to — to  disturb 
me  that  I — in  fact,  I  can't  stand  it." 

Cameron's  only  answer  was  a  slow  smile. 

"All  the  time  I  don't  agree  with  you,  and  if  anybody 
else  talked  as  you  talk,  I  shouldn't  care  that."  Gale  snapped 
his  fingers.  "But  with  you  it's  different;  it  upsets  my 
work,  and — and " 


PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS  93 

"Yes,  yes;  don't  go  into  it  again.  I  understand.  You 
must  just  come  in  for  a  few  minutes  now  and  again  and 
tell  me  how  you're  getting  on." 

Gale  rose  and  held  out  his  hand.  "Thank  you,"  he 
said;  "thank  you  awfully." 

"It's  all  right.  Smooth  down  your  hair,  laddie,  before 
you  go." 


GALE  walked  away  from  Hinde  Street  upbraiding 
himself  for  his  own  instability.  To  be  obliged  to 
avoid  a  friend  because  that  friend  held  views  which  con- 
flicted with  his  own — could  anything  be  more  despicable? 
If  Cameron's  ideas  were  wild  and  absurd,  why  was  he  dis- 
turbed by  them — he  who  in  the  ordinary  way  did  not  care 
a  brass  farthing  what  anybody  thought?  He  refused  to 
acknowledge  that  somewhere  in  the  recesses  of  his  mind  was- 
a  corner  in  which  those  ideas  of  Cameron's  met  with  secret 
agreement,  and  that  in  that  corner,  not  in  Cameron's  argu- 
ments, lay  the  keystone  to  his  position.  It  was  wiser,  safer, 
to  go  on  reproaching  himself;  and  it  was  a  relief  to  ha.ve 
the  reproaches  broken  in  upon,  even  by  a  beggar's  whine. 

"Spare  me  a  copper,  sir,"  said  a  woman's  voice;  and 
Gale,  glad  of  the  diversion,  stopped  and  put  his  hand  in  his 
pocket. 

As  he  turned,  the  woman  started.    "Why,  it's "  she 

said,  and  stopped. 

He  knew  her  at  once.  He  had  seen  the  face  first,  troubled 
and  anxious,  then  brightening  at  his  reassuring  words,  in 
the  ward  at  St.  Anne's;  he  had  seen  it  later  in  the  oper- 
ating theatre,  pale  with  fear,  then  tranquil  in  unconscious- 
ness; and  lastly  he  had  seen  it  scarred  and  mutilated,  full 
of  upbraiding. 

With  that  latest  vision  came  the  memory  of  reproachful 
words:  "You  didn't  tell  me  the  truth."  He  had  not  been 

94 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  95 

able  to  explain  to  her  that  he  had  spoken  the  truth,  that 
the  treachery  lay  not  in  his  assurances,  but  in  the  surgeon's 
act;  an  unwritten  law  of  loyalty  compelled  him  to  lame 
excuse,  or  to  silence;  and  he  had  chosen 'the  latter,  veiling 
it  with  the  words,  "I  made  a  mistake." 

Of  late  he  had  put  the  face  out  of  his  thoughts;  it  was 
the  label  of  Moreton  Shand's  descent  in  his  esteem,  and  it 
lay,  with  the  man  who  had  marred  it,  on  the  shelf  of  those 
exceptions  which  proved  the  ruling  npbility  of  medical 
men  and  methods.  Now,  as  he  saw  it  again,  the  whole 
incident  came  back  to  him;  an  incident  in  the  life  of  tho 
hospital,  a  drama  in  that  of  the  woman  who  stood  beside 
him. 

"It's  Mrs.  Jennings,  isn't  it?"  he  said.  "I'm  sorry  to 

see  you "  "begging,"  he  was  going  to  say,  but  stopped 

and  substituted  "like  this." 

"It's  what  I've  come  to.  I  lost  my  job  through  being 
kep'  so  long  in  the  'orspital;  and  then  this" — she  touched 
her  disfigured  cheek — "has  stood  in  the  way  of  my  getting 
another.'" 

"But — but  surely  it  doesn't  interfere?  If  it  was  your 
hand,  now — or  if  you  couldn't  walk " 

The  woman  gave  a-  little  laugh ;  it  was  almost  amusing, 
the  ignorance  of  these  well-to-do  people ;  and,  to  her,  Sidney 
Gale  belonged  to  the  ranks  of  the  rich.  Almost  amusing  it 
was,  but  not  altogether;  and  so  there  was  more  scorn  than 
mirth  in  the  laugh. 

"When  there's  dozens  after  one  job,  it's  not  a  face  like 
mine  as  gets  picked  out  to  take  it  on,"  she  said. 

"But  your  husband ?"  Gale  remembered  that  there 

had  been,  a  gold  ring  on  the  woman's  left  hand. 

"Killed  on  the  railway." 

"But  then — you  have  a  pension  surely?" 


96 

Sarah  Jennings  shook  her  head. 

"I  thought  they  gave  pensions,"  said  Gale,  who  was  as 
ignorant  as  are  most  people  about  the  conditions  of  any 
class  but  his  own. 

"I  dunno;  they  didn't  give  me  no  pension,  an/ow.  So  it's 
a  job  or  begging — more  especial  when  there's  children." 

"You  have  children?" 

"Two.  The  littlest  didn't  know  me  when  I  came  'ome 
like  this.  She  screamed  orful." 

"Well,  I  must  get  back  now."  Gale  put  half  a  crown 
into  the  woman's  hand.  "Perhaps  I — at  any  rate,  I'll  see 
what  I  can  do."  He  took  a  letter  from  his  pocket  and  tore 
off  a  blank  scrap  of  paper.  "Look  here,  I'm  leaving  St. 
Anne's  very  soon,  my  time's  up  there.  This,"  he  said, 
writing  as  he  spoke,  "after  this  month,  this  address  will  find 
me.  Come  and  see  me  there  some  evening,  after  eight 
o'clock.  I'll  see  if  I  can  do  anything.  I'd  like  to  help  you 
if  I  can." 

He  walked  away — quickly,  because  he  was  late,  but  also 
because  the  encounter  with  Sarah  Jennings  had  upset  him ; 
for  the  more  disturbed  Gale  was  the  faster  he  went. 

Moreton  Shand  was  an  exception;  but  even  with  Moreton 
Shand  definitely  labelled  and  properly  shelved,  the  encoun- 
ter was  disquieting,  since  it  bore  out  some  of  those  absurd 
contentions  of  Cameron's.  For  Cameron  had  asserted  that 
it  was  impossible  to  judge  of  the  effect  and  value  of  medical 
science  without  a  wide  knowledge  of  the  world  in  which 
that  science  was  a  factor ;  that  it  was  necessary  to  know,  not 
only  the  developments  of  disease,  but  the  conditions  which 
bred  it,  the  evils  which  rivalled  it,  before  the  part  which 
medicine  had  to  play  could  be  accurately  estimated.  The 
idea  had  seemed  to  Gale  far-fetched  and  exaggerated;  the 
cure  of  existing  disease  was  to  him  the  primary  means  of 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  97 

benefiting  humanity ;  and  he  saw  no  reason  for  considering 
that  cure  in  connection  with  social  conditions  or  the  prob- 
lems arising  out  of  poverty.  Yet  here  was  a  woman  who 
wanted  for  herself  and  her  children,  not  medicine,  but 
bread;  who,  even  if  she  had  been  helped  instead  of  hin- 
dered by  the  surgeon's  knife,  needed,  besides  health,  the 
means  of  maintaining  it,  besides  life,, the  possibility  of  earn- 
ing a  living.  Could  it  be  possible  that  there  was  some 
justice  in  Cameron's  contention ;  that  there  was  no  one  sub- 
ject which  could  be  entirely  detached  from  all  other  sub- 
jects ;  and  that  it  was  impossible  fully  to  understand,  rightly 
to  appreciate,  any  single  problem  apart  from  its  relation 
to  other  problems  ?  So  entirely  occupied  was  his  mind  with 
Sarah  Jennings  and  the  reflections  to  which  she  gave  rise, 
that  he  reached  the  hospital  without  having  once  thought  of 
Miss  Lowther — an  experience  which,  at  this  period  of  Gale's 
life,  was  almost  unique. 


CHAPTER  XV 

DAVID  on  her  side  was  certainly  not  thinking  of  Gale. 
She  did  not  think  of  him  much  at  any  time,  and 
just  now  her  mind  was  fully  occupied  by  Judith  Home,  her 
illness  and  her  delinquency.  For  David,  tender  to  the  in- 
valid, was,  at  this  time,  hostile  to  the  woman.  It  was  un- 
pardonable of  Mrs.  Home  to  have  aired  her  narrow  and 
ignorant  ideas  in  the  presence  of  a  girl  whose  father  held 
ihe  views  and  position  of  Dr.  Lowther;  it  was  bad  taste; 
and  for  David  to  pronounce  a  thing  to  be  bad  taste  was  to 
eet  upon  it  the  hall-mark  of  disapproval.  To  be  sure,  at 
the  end  of  her  tirade,  Mrs.  Home  had  made  a  sort  of  apol- 
ogy: it  was  indeed  through  the  apology  that  David  had 
become  aware  of  the  fault;  but  she  had  shown  no  disposi- 
tion to  withdraw  her  charge,  and  so  could  hardly  be  for- 
given. Yet,  being  ill,  she  must  be  treated  with  leniency; 
it  was  indeed  well  to  show  her  what  the  people  she  so  ma- 
ligned were  made  of ;  so  David  nursed  her  offending  friend 
assiduously. 

Judith  was  not  ill  long;  she  had  a  healthy  constitution, 
lived  a  healthy  life,  and,  before  many  days  were  past,  was 
up  and  about  again.  Then  David,  intending  to  be  mag- 
nanimously superior,  became,  in  fact,  conspicuously  stiff; 
and  Judith,  wondering,  inquired  what  was  the  matter. 

David  was  glad  of  the  inquiry;  she  was  bursting  with 
arguments  and  -rejoinders  which  she  had  accumulated  dur- 
ing the  last  few  days  in  imaginary  conversations  with  Mrs. 

98 


PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS  99 

Home,  and  she  was  longing  to  overwhelm  her  antagonist 
with  their  weight  and  point.  But  when  it  came  to  outward 
utterance,  she  found  it  difficult  to  marshal  her  forces;  for 
Judith,  speaking  with  fleshly  tongue,  did  not  say  the  things 
to  which  Judith,  in  the  imaginary  conversations,  had  given 
voice,  nor  lead  up  to  the  convincing  replies  with  which 
David  was  equipped.  Nevertheless,  the  preliminary  bar- 
riers overcome,  and  once  launched  on  the  pathway  of  re- 
proachful denunciation,  David  succeeded  in  expressing 
herself  with  considerable  force. 

Judith  listened  in  silence  to  the  tempestuous  onslaught, 
tranquil  after  the  first  thrill  of  surprise ;  and  when  the  girl 
paused,  embarrassed  by  lack  of  contradiction — 

"I  wonder,"  said  Judith,  with  her  reflective  air,  "what 
you  will  think  of  it  all  ten  years  hence !" 

"I  may  be  in  a  lunatic  asylum,  of  course;  but  if  I'm 
sane " 

"I  accept  the  implication,"  said  Judy,  with  a  quick 
smile;  "still  we  may  possibly  find  a  common  platform 
other  than  that  of  lunacy.  You  see,"  she  went  on,  "you 
base  your  protestations  all  upon  results,  but,  having  a  gen- 
erous nature,  there  may  come  a  time  when  results  may 
clash  with  methods." 

"They  can't  clash  with  reason." 

"Reason  is  fallible  in  the  region  of  partial  comprehen- 
sion. It  needs  imagination  fully  to  understand  many  of 
the  problems  with  which  reason  has  to  deal." 

"I  should  have  thought  that  experience  was  a  much 
better  guide  than  imagination." 

"The  experience  of  a  vivisector  is  always  partial.  If, 
for  instance,  you  cut  my  finger,  you  know  certainly  what 
it  feels  like  to  run  a  knife  through  flesh,  but  you  don't 
know  at  all  what  my  flesh  feels  like  when  the  knife  is  di- 


100  PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS 

viding  it.  That  requires  imagination.  And  what  vivisector 
ever  exercises  his  imagination  in  the  directon  of  the  suffer- 
ing he  creates?  ever  thinks  of  anything  except  discovery? 
Well,  we  won't  argue  that  point.  I  feel  too  deeply  and  you 
too  strongly,  to  get  any  profit  out  of  discussing  it.  But, 
taking  it  on  the  purely  selfish  ground,  on  the  policy  of 
results,  I,  personally,  prefer  to  be  carefully  tended  rather 
than  skilfully  carved." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

"I'll  tell  you.  Vivisection,  which  claims  to  diminish  the 
sufferings  and  further  the  interests  of  humanity,  produces 
a  callousness  in  its  pupils  which  is  a  far  greater  danger  to 
humanity  than  the  ills  it  is  supposed  to  overcome." 

"I  don't  see  that  you  have  any  right  to  say  such  a  thing. 
Generalising " 

"I  have  a  right,  the  right  of  my  own  experience.  I'm 
not  generalising,  I  assure  you.  England  is  advancing — I 
speak  as  a  knave — advancing  in  vivisectional  discovery  and 
practice;  every  year  the  returns  of  experiments  go  up  till 
they  have  reached  thousands.  But  she  is  still,  I  understand, 
behind  France.  France  and  Germany  are  in  the  van  of  the 
movement,  and  here  in,  Lapelliere,  one  of  the  medical 
strongholds,  the  way  that  vivisection  works  can  be  pretty 
well  tested.  You  agree?" 

"I — yes,  I  suppose  so." 

"Well,  last  year  I  had  an  operation  for  appendicitis.  It 
was  very  well  done ;  I  was,  as  I  said,  skilfully  carved.  And 
I'll  tell  you  just  how  they  did  it.  I  went  into  a  home — of 
course,  a  cliniqiie.  By  the  way,  have  you  noticed,  in  Eng- 
land, with  the  increase  of  vivisection  the  increase  of  the 
surgical  homes?"  Judith  left  her  seat  and  began  to  walk 
up  and  down  the  room,  her  hands  behind  her  back;  it  was 


PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS  101 

a  habit  she  had  when  talking  of  things  which  interested  her; 
a  habit  with  which  David  had  become  familiar. 

"Surgery  has  advanced,  they  say,"  Judy  went  on.  "It 
has,  in  many  directions;  notably  in  the  number  of  opera- 
tions performed.  Formerly  men  were  chary  of  cutting: 
'Use  your  eyes  before  your  hands'  and  ' Amputation  is  the 
reproach  of  surgery';  those  were  the  axioms  they  used  to 
go  by.  But  now  it's  different ;  now  it's  all  for  'lopping  off.' 
I  should  like  to  know  to  how  many  patients  the  specialists 
who  belong  to  the  high  priesthood  of  the  profession  don't 
say,  'An  operation  at  once.  You  must  go  into  my  home.'  * 

"It's  disgraceful "  began  David. 

Judy  interrupted  her  by  patting  her  en  the  hand.  "I 
won't  wander  again,"  she  said,  "and  please  take  it  as  pro- 
posed, seconded,  and  carried,  that  Dr.  Lowther  is  considered 
to  be  a  member  of  the  present  company,  and  therefore 
excepted  from  every  vilification  I  bring  forward.  Well,  to 
go  back  to  my  concrete  instance.  On  the  morning  of  the 
operation  I  was  carried  down  to  the  operating-room  and 
placed  on  a  table.  It  was  too  short  for  me,  and  my  head 
hung  down  over  the  edge.  There  were  two  or  three  doctors 
in  the  room,  three  or  four  students,  the  nurse  who  looked 
after  me — the  nurses  are  all  men  here  in  ihe  cliniqu.es — and 
a  second  nurse.  I  was  stripped,  practically;  my  arms  and 
legs  were  bound  so  that  I  could  not  move,  and  I  lay  naked 
on  the  table  covered  with  nothing  but  shame.  Then  the 
second  nurse  scrubbed  me,  over  and  around  the  part  whero, 
the  cut  was  to  be  made,  scrubbed  me  with  a  scrubbing 
brush ;  and  hard,  as  if  I  was  a  deal  board  and  not  a  woman. 
The  skin  has  to  be  absolutely  clean,  mind  you;  only  in 
England  they  put  an  antiseptic  dressing  on  you  the  night 
before  the  operation,  to  do  the  necessary  cleansing ;  and  the 
scrubbing  in  my  case  might,  at  any  rate,  have  been  done 


102  PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS 

after  I  was  under  the  anaesthetic ;  I  might  have  been  spared 
both  the  shame  and  the  pain.  And  the  pain  was  horrible ; 
if  you  have  any  idea  what  appendicitis  is  like,  you  will 
have  some  notion  of  what  it  means  to  be  scrubbed  violently 
over  the  appendix.  Then,  my  head  hanging  down  over  the 
edge  of  the  table  caused  awful  pain  in  the  neck  and  terrible 
sensations  altogether.  I  shrieked  with  agony,  I  couldn't 
help  it ;  I  can't  tell  you  how  it  all  hurt ;  but  neither  the  doc- 
tors nor  the  students,  nor  the  man  who  was  scrubbing  me, 
attempted  to  soothe  or  help  me  in  any  way.  Nobody  took 
the  slightest  notice  of  me  except  my  own  nurse,  who  said 
once  or  twice,  'N'ayez  pas  peurT  I  don't  know  that  I  had 
peur;  I  was  in  too  great  agony  to  be  afraid.  The  anaes- 
thetic, when  it  came,  seems  to  me  now  like  a  curtain  de- 
scending on  a  sort  of  hideous  nightmare.  When  the  curtain 
went  up  again  I  was  back  in  bed ;  and,  as  I  say,  the  cutting 
was  quite  skilfully  done.  So  was  the  nursing,  so  long  as 
I  was  in  the  acute  stage  of  illness.  Afterwards,  when  my 
recovery  was  tiresomely  slow,  I  was  left  almost  entirely  to 
myself,  badly  fed,  inadequately  tended  in  every  way.  In- 
deed, if  Annie  West,  who  came  out  as  soon  as  she  heard 
what  had  happened,  had  not  removed  me  home  again  and 
looked  after  me  herself,  I  don't  know  whether  I  should 
have  got  better  at  all.  The  very  day  I  got  back  I  began  to 
improve.  Humanity !  nobody  cared  a  pin's  head  about  me 
as  a  human  being.  It  was  only  the  disease  and  the  case 
that  interested  them.  I  tell  you  I  would  rather  have  a  doc- 
tor, a  physician  in  the  true  sense  of  the  word,  one  who  cares 
for  the  sufferings  of  his  patients,  who  can  help  and  soothe 
as  well  as  operate  upon  them,  than  all  the  scientific  dis- 
sectors in  the  world.  And  the  two  classes  cannot  live  side 
by  side;  the  one  is  elbowing  out  the  other.  By  and  by  we 


PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS  103 

shall  have  a  profession  of  medical  scientists  and  no  more 
doctors." 

For  the  moment  David,  absorbed  in  contemplation  of 
the  picture  Judy  had  called  up,  had  almost  forgotten  her 
grievance. 

"Awful  it  must  have  been!"  she  said.  "However  you 
endured  it!" 

"As  for  enduring  it,"  said  Judy,  "I  couldn't  help  my- 
self. Do  you  suppose  I'd  have  stayed  there  if  I  could  have 
got  away?  But  I  couldn't  move.  If  they'd  gagged  my 
mouth  as  well,  so  that  I  couldn't  scream,  no  doubt  they'd 
have  said  I  didn't  feel  any  pain — as  they  do  of  the  animals 
who  are  dumb  as  well  as  helpless." 

Her  words  recalled  David  from  contemplation  to  dis- 
cussion. "It's  absurd  to  call  them  dumb  in  that  sense," 
she  answered.  "An  animal  can  show  when  ifs  in  pain 
just  as  well  as  a  human  being." 

"Yes,  but  it  can't  put  its  sufferings  into  words,  it  can't 
appeal  to  the  public,  it  can't  hold  meetings  or  write  letters 
to  the  papers.  It  is  dumb  in  the  bitterest  sense  of  the  word 
— shut  into  a  world  whence  the  history  of  its  sufferings  can 
never  be  issued."  Judith  paused,  and  something  in  her 
eyes  kept  the  girl  beside  her  silent.  "If  it  could,"  she  went 

on,  "if  that  tale  of  pain,  of  terror,  of  trust  betrayed " 

She  turned  to  David.  "Did  it  ever  occur  to  you,"  she 
asked,  "that  the  little  ones  Christ  forbade  us  to  offend  are 
not  confined  to  the  children  of  the  human  race  ?  that  they 
include  all  beings  who  are  immature,  whether  human,  or 
struggling  in  some  other  species  through  the  successive 
stages  of  development?  and  that  to  the  more  advanced  the 
less  advanced  must  be  always  little  ones' ;  to  be  helped  for- 
ward ;  never  ill-used  or  exploited  ?  I  don't  accept  all  Annie 


104  PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

West's  views,  but  that  one  of  the  wider  evolution  seems  to 
me  both  intelligent  and  just." 

David  did  not  answer;  the  idea  presented  by  Judy's 
words  was  novel,  so  novel  that  she  did  not  fully  grasp  it; 
it  conveyed  to  her  merely  a  sudden  widening  of  horizon 
which  carried  with  it  bewilderment  rather  than  illumina- 
tion. Presently  she  said — 

"I  should  rather  like  to  hear  a  conversation  between  you 
and  father." 

Then  Judith  laughed.1 

'App.  3. 


CHAPTEE  XVI 

AFTER  that  conversation  David  returned  to  her  allegi- 
ance. It  -was  not  that  she  was  any  more  in  agreement 
with  Judith  than  before,  not  that  she  had  consciously 
altered  the  mental  attitude  in  which  she  had  been  brought 
up ;  but  she  ceased  to  resent  the  fact  that  her  friend  differed 
from  her.  For  David  was  not  without  a  sense  of  justice; 
and  after  the  first  annoyance  was  past,  she  was  fain  to  allow 
that  Judith  Home  had  as  much  right  to  her  opinion  as  had 
David  Lowther;  and  to  acknowledge,  moreover,  that  what 
Judy  had.  said  about  vivisection  and  its  adherents  was  no 
stronger  than  the  abuse  of  its  opponents  which  she  was  ac- 
customed to  listen,  to. 

The  vexed  question  was  not  again  fully  discussed  be- 
tween David  and  her  hostess;  neither  was  it  completely 
ignored.  To  mention.it  not  at  all  would  have  meant  limit- 
ing conversation  to  trivialities,  since  the  vital  interests  of 
life  are  so  interwoven  that  it  is  impossible  frankly  to  discuss 
one  without  trenching  on  the  others.  And  Judith's  talk 
was  often  of  the  things  that  matter;  she  was  a  woman  who 
lived  more  fully  as  the  years  grew  high  about  her,  not 
suffering  them  to  press  upon  her  eyes  and  dim  her  sight, 
but  trending  them  beneatht  her  feet  and  rising,  as  they  rose, 
to  a  higher  survey  of  the  life  through  which  they  led  her. 
Much  that  she  said  was  incomprehensible  to  David  at  the 
time  she  said  it ;  much  seemed  to  the  girl  delightfully  fan- 

105 


106  PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS 

tastic  or  impossibly  absurd;  yet  because  Judy,  when  she 
talked,  was  always  intensely  interested  in  what  she  was  say- 
ing, David  was  interested,  too ;  and  was  fascinated  by  many 
of  the  ideas,  impressed  by  many  of  the  statements,  which 
she  could  neither  accept  nor  contravene. 

But  she  had  not  a  great  deal  of  leisure  in  which  to  listen 
to  Judy  or  to  reflect  upon  Judy's  words.  As  time  went  on, 
as  she  made  some  progress  in  the  art  she  had  set  herself  to 
study,  the  interest  of  the  study  absorbed  the  greater  part  of 
her  thoughts  as  well  as  the  larger  portion  of  the  day,  and 
she  dreamed  dreams  of  fame  which  were  far  removed  from 
Judy's  interests  and  philosophy.  Through  the  hot  summer 
the  dreams  developed;  anything  seemed  possible  beneath 
the  brilliancy  of  the  southern  sky;  fame  was  imminent  in 
the  atmosphere.  To  be  sure,  there  were  days,  and  always 
in  each  day,  hours,  when  the  glare  and  heat  stifled  ambition, 
energy,  almost  life  itself;  days  and  hours  when  the  inhab- 
itants of  the  villa,  human  and  canine,  panted  and  languished 
behind  drawn  blinds,  in  darkened  rooms,  and  thought  in 
quite  a  friendly  spirit  of  east  wind  in  England;  but  with 
the  evening  cool  or  the  morning  freshness,  the  glamour  of 
the  south  was  astir  again. 

Then  came  the  cooler  days  of  steady  work,  and  then  the 
winter,  when  working  hours  were  few.  David  had  to  be 
back  at  the  villa  before  the  early  fall  of  the  night,  for  the 
lonely  road  outside  the  town  was  hardly  safe  after  dark. 
But  though  she  could  not  paint,  she  could  draw,  and  she 
drew  diligently  through  the  long  evenings.  She  did  not 
want  the  spring;  for  the  spring  meant  a  return  to  England, 
and  to  the  life  which,  though  it  held  more  variety  than  that 
which  she  led  at  the  villa,  held  also  less  liberty.  And  David 
loved  liberty.  Had  she  but  known  it,  it  was  freedom  she 
desired,  rather  than  artistic  accomplishment;  and  as  the 


PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS  107 

time  to  return  home  drew  nearer,  the  thought  of  the  lim- 
itations of  home  became  more  oppressive. 

At  first  it  would  be  all  right ;  she  honestly  looked  forward 
to  seeing  her  father  and  mother,  honestly  thought  it  would 
be  delightful  to  be  with  them  again — for  a  time ;  her  hon- 
esty was  genuine  enough  to  admit  the  qualification.  And 
at  first  there  would  be  friends  to  see,  and  she  would  be 
made  much  of,  and  would  enjoy  the  parties  and  the  theatres, 
the  stir  of  London  and  the  stimulus  born  of  that  stir.  But 
the  little  excitements  and  interests  of  daily  life  in  her 
father's  house  would  soon  lose  their  colour  and  sparkle,  and 
the  old  chafing  conditions  would  chafe  her  once  again.  For 
her  father  would  never  allow  her  to  set  up  a  studio  of  her 
own,  or  even  to  study,  she  feared,  in  the  studio  of  a  teacher. 
The  doctor  had  given  way  before  a  sudden  assault,  but  he 
would  not  daily  forego  his  prejudices.  To  be  sure,  there 
was  that  money  of  Aunt  Emily's;  but  to  use  that  little 
private  purse  would  mean  daily  defiance,  and  would  be 
impossible.  No,  she  would  have  to  take  the  back  seat  of 
which  she  had  spoken  to  Sidney  Gale,  and  be  obliged  to 
hide  her  light  under  the  bushel  of  the  doctor's  despotism. 
Yet  she  would  make  an  effort  to  get  her  way ;  she  had  won 
it  once ;  why  not  again  ?  She  wrote  to  her  father  asking  if 
she  might  arrange,  after  a  visit  home,  to  return  for  another 
autumn  and  winter  to  Lapelliere. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

DAVID'S  letter  reached  uie  doctor  m  the  grey  light  of 
a  January  morning.  He  read  it  without  outward 
comment,  and  put  it  into  his  pocket  to  be  considered  in 
the  privacy  of  his  study. 

Mrs.  Lowther  was  left  sitting  in  emptiness  at  the  break- 
fast table.  The  emptiness,  as  far  as  her  stomach  was  con- 
cerned, was  of  her  own  choosing;  but  she  could  not  eat, 
because  her  heart,  too,  felt  empty,  of  sympathy  .almost,  of 
hope  nearly,  of  courage  quite.  Last  night's  talk  with  her 
husband  had  exhausted  the  courage;  that  little  fount  of  it 
which  had  sprung  up,  she  hardly  knew  whence,  and  had 
caused  her  to  speak  plainly  after  eighteen  years'  silence. 

It  was  Cranley-Chance  who  had  been  the  means  of  initi- 
ating a  conversation  between  the  husband  and  wife  who 
spoke  to  each  other  daily,  but  never  talked. 

The  evening  before,  the  professor  had  given  a  dinner 
party  at  which  Lowther  was  a  guest ;  and,  staying  on  after 
the  rest  of  the  company  had  gone,  he  had  had  a  cigar,  a 
whisky  and  seltzer,  and  a  talk,  alone  with  his  host.  In  the 
course  of  the  talk,  Chance  had  expressed  his  admiration  of 
Miss  Lowther;  had  hinted  at  more  than  admiration;  had 
indeed,  indirectly  but  certainly,  asked,  and  in  the  same  way 
obtained,  the  doctor's  approval  and  support  of  his  intended 
suit. 

Lowther  had  come  home  elated.  Cranley-Chance  was 
more  than  a  rising  man;  he  had  risen;  his  position  was 

108 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  109 

secure  and  prominent,  and  Lowther  could  not  desire  a;  more 
satisfactory  son-in-law.  There  was  a  difference  in-  age  of 
course,  but  Chance  was  a  good  ten  years  younger  than  him- 
self, and  David  was  the  sort  of  girl  who4  would  be  all  the 
better  with  a  husband  who  would  take  the  upper  hand.  The 
doctor,  with  all  his  investigations-  into  the  function  of  the 
brain  in  psychology,  had  not  yet  arrived  at  the  discovery 
that  age  does  not  inevitably  constitute  authority.  And 
David  would  settle  down,  too,  when  married  to  a  clever, 
capital  fellow  like  Chance,  would  give  up  those  immature 
girlish  ideas  about  being  an  artist,  and  take  up  the  desirable 
position  of  an  eminent  man's  wife.  She  might  ha.ve  married 
some  long-haired  chap — Lowther's  short-cropped  head  grew 
bristly  as  he  thought  of  it — who  would  have  been  a  constant 
thorn  in  his  side;  whereas  Cranley-Chance  would  add 
laurels  to  the  crown,  of  his  reputation.  It  was  splendid ;  he 
did  not  know  when-  he  had  been  so  pleased ;  and  he  reached 
home  in  spirits  which  only  required  an  outlet  to  become 
exuberant. 

Mrs.  Lowther  was  hardly  an  outlet;  but  she  had  ears; 
and  she  was  still  sitting  knitting  by  the  drawing-room  fire 
when  Lowther,  seeing  a  light  beneath. the  door,  looked  in  on 
his  way  upstairs.  Besides,  she  was  David's  mother,  a  fact 
which  somehow  only  occasionally  occurred  to  David's 
fa.tb.er;  and — well,  all  women  were  match-makers,  and  it 
would  be  a  novel  sensation  to  discuss  a  common  interest 
with  her,  and  see  her  face  light  up,  perhaps — as  it  used  to 
do  long  ago — *vhen  she  heard  what  he  had  to  say. 

But  Bertha  Lowther's  face,  far  from  lighting  up,  fell 
with  consternation;  and  her  words,  jerked  out  with  the 
effort  of  uttering  them,  fell  upon  the  doctor's  ears  with  the 
shock  of  an  unexpected  explosion. 

"I  will  never  give  my  consent,"  said  David's  mother. 


110  PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS 

Surprise  held  the  doctor  dumb ;  for  a  moment  or  two  he 
simply  stood  and  stared  at  the  little  woman  in  the  dowdy 
dress,  with  hands  that  trembled  as  they  clasped  each  other 
across  a  mass  of  brown  yarn. 

"Not  give  your  consent?"  was  all  he  found  to  say  at  the 

end  of  the  pause.  Then,  "What  the  deuce "  he  began, 

and  paused  again. 

"Bernard,"  said  Mrs.  Lowther.  She  kept  her  voice  even ; 
she  tried  to  go  on  knitting,  but  David,  if  she  had  been  pres- 
ent, would  have  had  the  satisfaction  of  noting  that  she 
dropped  more  stitches  than  she  caught  up.  "Bernard,  you 
may  think  that  I've  changed,  that  because  I'm  passive  I've 
given  way  in  my  own  mind,  or  forgotten.  It  isn't  so ;  I — I 
think  just  the  same;  and  I  will  never  allow  David  to  run 
the  risk  of  suffering  as  I  have  suffered/' 

Lowther  looked  down  at  his  wife  with  a  half-puzzled 
expression  on  his  face.  His  surprise  had  given  way  to  con- 
tempt, but  with  the  contempt  went  a  certain  flavouring  of 
curiosity.  What  was  it  in  the  little  fool,  he  was  thinking, 
that  made  her  so  persistent  in  regard  to  this  one  idea?  Ah, 
one  idea;  that  was  just  it;  a  sort  of  idee  fixe  that  distorted 
her  vision  and  absorbed  the  whole  force  of  her  mentality. 
Lowther  shrugged  his  shoulders;  she  was  hysterical  of 
course,  must  be  treated  as  a  patient  rather  than  an  op- 
ponent; he  caressed  his  clean-shaven  chin  with  his  left 
hand,  a  trick  he  had  when  thinking  out  a  diagnosis. 

"David,"  said  he,  "is  made  of  different  stuff  from  you; 
she  takes  after  me,  and  her  views  are  no  more  morbid  than 
mine  are." 

"A  girl  has  no  views;  she  thinks  as  she's  been  brought 
up.  It's  when  you  run  up  against  things  you  haven't  under- 
stood that  you  begin  to  have  views." 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  111 

"As  for  understanding!    Ever  since  ?he  could  think  at 

all,  I  have  explained  and  she  has  agreed " 

"It's  different  when  you  argue;  but  arguments  don't 
make  you  understand,  especially  your  kinds  of  arguments; 
they  only  stand  in  the  way  of  your  understanding.  David's 
my  only  child,  and  I  won't  let  her  run  any  risks." 

"Pooh!"  said  Lowther.  "Isn't  she  mine,  too?  and  more 
mine  than  yours,  because  she's  got  more  of  my  nature  in 
her."  He  was  losing  sight  of  the  patient  in  the  tiresome 
woman. 

"She  does  take  after  you  in  many  ways — which  might 
make  it  worse.  She  has  your  courage,  Bernard,  and  she 
couldn't  be  quiet  as  Fve  been." 

"And  my  common  sense,  thank  God!  There's  no  fear 
of  her  taking  up  with  your  ridiculous  notions.  You're 
wasting  time  over  a  thing  that  couldn't  happen." 

"That's  as  it  may  be."  Mrs.  Lowther  gave  up  her  at- 
tempt at  knitting.  "But  I — I'll  never  agree  to  her  marry- 
ing Cranley- Chance,  Bernard.  I  couldn't." 

Then  the  doctor's  temper  went  altogether,  and  he  had  no 
further  thought  of  diagnosis.  "And  a  damned  lot  of  good 
may  it  do  you!"  he  cried.  "Do  you  suppose  you've  any 
chance  against  David  and  me?" 

He  flung  out  of  the  room,  and  Mrs.  Lowther,  after  a  few 
minutes,  during  which  she  sat  white  and  trembling  by  the 
fire,  rose  up  and  carried  her  knitting  over  to  the  blue  work- 
basket  in  the  corner.  The  knitting  was  no  longer  a  stock- 
ing, but  a  mass  of  confusion,  yet  the  fact  hardly  disturbed 
her.  Within  her  was  a  thought  that  cheered  her  down- 
trodden self-respect.  "I  spoke  up,"  she  said  to  herself,  "I 
did  speak  up." 

There  was  comfort,  too,  in  another  thought,  one  which 
apparently  had  not  occurred  to  her  husband :  it  was  possible 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS 

that  David  herself  might  not  wish  to  marry  Cranley- 
Chance. 

But  the  next  morning  came  reaction  and  emptied  her 
heart  of  hope.  Bernard  was  so  masterful,  and  David,  with 
all  her  spirit  and  love  of  her  own  way,  was,  after  all,  a 
woman;  therefore,  as  Mrs.  Lowther  argued,  weak;  and 
therefore,  according  to  her  experience  of  the  world,  destined 
to  be  sacrificed  to  the  strong.  She  had  seen  her  daughter's 
handwriting  beside  the  doctor's  plate  and  had  hungered 
for  a  message;  but  Lowther  had  read  the  letter  in  silence 
and  left  the  table  without  breaking  it.  So  she  felt  very 
desolate  as  she  sat  looking  forlornly  at  the  tea-pot,  and  suf- 
fering, in  addition  to  her  anxiety,  from  that  super  self- 
consciousness  known  only  to  the  reserved  after  their  reserve 
has  been,  ever  so  slightly,  broken  through. 

Lowther,  meanwhile,  was  in  his  study,  re-reading  David's 
letter.  If  his  wife  were  going  to  make  a  fuss,  the  plan 
which  David  suggested  was  worthy  of  consideration.  Bertha 
was  longing,  he  knew,  for  the  girl's  return;  her  presence 
was  the  chief  joy  in  her  mother's  life;  and  the  possibility 
of  her  renewed  absence  would  be  a  weapon  in  his  hand.  But 
then,  he  thought,  what,  after  all,  did  his  wife's  opposition 
matter  ?  it  would  be  too  easily  brushed  aside  to  count  as  a 
factor  in  the  situation.  Besides,  David  must  be  on  the 
spot,  conveniently  located  for  courtship;  he  decided  that 
all  idea  of  going  back  to  Lapelliere  must  be  stamped  out 
of  her  mind.  That  mind  must  be  left  quite  free  to  receive 
the  idea  of  becoming  Cranley-Chance's  wife. 

David,  when  she  got  her  father's  reply,  was  hardly 
disappointed ;  it  was  of  the  kind  she  had  expected.  Never- 
theless, she  would  still  fight  against  the  back  seat.  She 
returned  home  determined  to  win  her  way,  at  least  to  the 
extent  of  becoming  a  student  at  the  Slade  School. 


CHAPTER    XVIII 

IT  certainly  was  rather  nice  to  be  back  in  London. 
"And  perhaps,"  said  David  to  herself,  "a  complete 
change  of  mental  atmosphere  is  good  for  one's  work." 

Certainly  the  atmosphere  of  Harley  Street  was  different 
from  that  of  the  villa;  but  what  David  really  found  ex- 
hilarating was  the  admiration  of  certain  young  men,  whose 
attentions,  she  had  told  herself  at  Lapelliere,  she  could  well 
dispense  with,  but  whose  allegiance,  when  renewed,  was 
not  other  than  welcome.  That  Cranley-Chance  had  joined 
the  ranks  of  her  suitors  was  not  at  first  apparent  to  her; 
he  was  too  old  to  enter  such  lists;  and  it  was  because  she 
was  her  father's  daughter  that  he  sought  her  out  and  took 
so  much  trouble  to  put  amusement  and  pleasure  in  her 
way. 

As  regarded  Sidney  Gale,  whom  she  found  to  be  a  fre- 
quent visitor  in  her  mother's  drawing-room  on  Sunday  aft- 
ernoons, the  case  was  different.  It  was  natural  that  he 
should  admire  her;  it  would  indeed  have  argued  an  in- 
ability to  appreciate  his  opportunities  had  he  failed  to 
do  so,  since  most  young  men  who  came  in  David's  way 
rendered  her  a  certain  measure  of  homage.  More  than  a 
measure  she  neither  demanded  nor  desired;  but  Gale  showed 
signs  of  exceeding  the  necessary  meed,  and  David  could 
not  be  said  to  discourage  him.  The  young  man  interested 
her;  a  combination  of  boldess  and  diffidence  in  him  ap- 
pealed to  her  woman's  craving  to  be  both  worshipped  and 

113 


PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

upheld;  and  he  impressed  her,  in  that  she  could  not  take 
him  up  and  lay  him  down  at  will,  as  was  the  case  with  most 
of  those  who  knelt  at  her  shrine.  Gale,  indeed,  held  her  in 
such  high  esteem  as  to  count  her  incapable  of  caprice,  and 
so  overrode  the  methods  of  minor  flirtation  as  to  lift  his 
courtship  of  her  to  a  level  above  coquetry.  For  his  court- 
ship now  was  definite  and  purposeful,  not  an  unrealisable 
dream,  as  it  had  seemed  when  he  had  seen  her  last.  She 
was  still  to  him  as  a  star,  but  he  was  no  longer  disposed 
to  play  moth;  he  would  rise  on  wings  stronger  than  those 
of  any  moth,  not  indeed  to  her  level,  but  high  enough  to 
make  her  his  own.  It  was  characteristic  of  him  that  it  was 
the  worth  and  charm  of  her  nature,  the  purity  and  romance 
of  her  young  womanhood,  which  caused  him  to  set  her  on 
so  high  a  throne;  the  superiority  of  her  worldly  position 
to  his  own  offered  no  formidable  bar  to  his  daring.  For 
he  would  win  both  fame  and  fortune;  of  that  he  did  not 
doubt;  diffident  of  himself  as  a  man,  he  was  confident  as 
a  doctor ;  he  would  make  his  way. 

He  had  started  in  practice  in  timorous  uncertainty  as 
to  how  far  his  untried  wings  would  bear  him,  but  already, 
in  the  first  nine  months,  he  had  learned  that  he  need  not 
be  afraid.  One  or  two  sudden  calls  in  urgent  cases  had 
brought  him  permanent  clients  and  a  widening  circle  of 
reputation.  Cameron  was  right;  he  felt  that  he  would 
succeed;  and  later  on,  when  he  had  gained  experience,  he 
would  specialise  and  set  his  face  toward  eminence.  But  all 
the  time  the  thoughts  of  fame  were  veiled  by  the  young 
man's  dreams  of  love.  Fame  would  be  the  portion  of  his 
middle  age;  but  love  was  the  glory  of  his  youth  and  made 
the  world  wonderful. 

Chance,  on  the  other  hand,  counted  his  fame  as  a  valuable 
asset  in  his  suit.  His  conception  of  women  and  his  expe- 


PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS  115 

rience  of  them  led  him  to  the  conclusion  that  money  and 
position  were  amongst  the  most  important  lures  of  love; 
and  it  was  in  the  eminent  scientist  that  he  placed  his  hopes 
of  winning  the  girl  who  had  charmed  him. 

Certainly  David  was  flattered  by  his  evident  interest. 
She  ranked  him  according  to  the  standard  of  that  particular 
world  in  which,  save  the  year  at  Lapelli£re,  she  had  always 
lived ;  and  in  that  world  Cranley-Chance  was  a  peer.  Flat- 
tered she  was,  even  while  she  imagined  that  he  sought  her 
out  for  her  father's  sake;  and  increasingly  so  when  it  be- 
came obvious  that  the  attraction  she  possessed  for  him 
was  entirely  her  own.  Even  then  she  did  not  look  upon 
him  in  the  light  of  a  lover ;  it  did  not  seem  to  her  that  it 
was  as  a  woman  she  pleased  him;  but  she  was  gratified 
that  amongst  eminent  men  who  cared,  according  to  her 
experience,  to  converse  only  with  other  eminent  men,  there 
was  one  who  counted  her  so  intelligent  as  to  wish  to  talk  to 
her  whenever  he  was  in  her  company.  And  he  talked,  not 
of  scientific  theories  or  progress,  but  of  things  in  which 
she  was  interested;  of  pictures,  of  foreign  countries,  some- 
times of  theatres  even;  a  fogey  in  standing  and  in  age, 
David  admitted  that  he  was,  nevertheless,  a  pleasant  com- 
panion. She  was  quite  at  her  ease  with  him,  as  indeed  she 
was  with  most  people,  and  treated  him  with  a  frank  friend- 
liness which  both  he  and  the  doctor  interpreted  as  a  tacit 
acceptance  of  his  suit.  Lowther  was  in  high  feather; 
Bertha  was  anxious;  Chance  was  radiant  with  hope. 

It  was  a  joyful  moment  for  the  doctor  when  one  morn- 
ing David  entered  his  study  with  a  letter  in  her  hand,  a 
letter  on  the  envelope  of  which  his  quick  eyes  recognised 
the  writing  of  Cranley-Chance.  The  crisis  had  arrived; 
he  rubbed  his  hands  and  tried  to  appear  unconscious  of  it. 


116  PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

"What  on  earth  do  you  think  has  happened,  father?" 
said  David. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  answered  Lowther,  his  eyes 
sparkling  at  the  thought  of  the  knowledge  he  denied. 

"Well,  you'd  never  guess,  so  I  may  as  well  tell  you 
at  once.  Professor  Cranley-  Chance" — David  blushed  a 
little;  it  really  was  so  absurd  as  to  be  embarrassing — "has 
asked  me  to  marry  him.  To  marry  him !" 

"Indeed,  my  dear." 

"Indeed?  Aren't  you  surprised?  Aren't  you — as- 
tounded ?" 

"Well,  hardly,  considering  that  he  has  eyes  for  nobody 
else  when  you  are  in  the  room." 

"Oh,  father!"  David's  tone  was  one  of  distressed  en- 
lightenment. "I — I  thought  he  thought  me  intelligent," 
she  said  ruefully.  "I  was  rather  pleased." 

"And  aren't  you  pleased  now?"  Lowther's  tone  and 
face  were  almost  arch. 

"Not  at  all.     It's  most — most  tiresome." 

"Tiresome?    I  don't  understand  you." 

"Well,  it  makes  things  so  awkward.  You  don't  suppose 
I'm  going  to  accept  him  ?" 

"I  should  certainly  never  suppose  anything  else  after  the 
way  you've  behaved."  The  doctor  was  no  longer  arch. 

"How  absurd!  I've  behaved — well,  as  if  he  were  an 
uncle." 

"You  behaved  as  if  he  were  a  favoured  suitor.  You 
astonish  me,  David." 

What  David  called  the  "take-a-back-seat"  expression  was 
on  her  father's  face,  but  she  was  resolved  not  to  sit  on 
the  seat. 

"We  appear  to  be  astonishing  each  other  all  round," 
she  said,  with  an  effort  after  lightness.  "The  professor 


PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS  117 

astonishes  me,  I  astonish  you,  and  I  suppose,  from  what 
you  say,  I  shall  astonish  the  professor." 

"Don't  be  ridiculous !    Your  conduct  is "    Lowther 

could  not  find  a  word  which  seemed  to  him  adequate,  and 
ended  with  "reprehensible." 

"You  surely  don't  want  me  to  marry  a  man  old  enough 
to  be  my^-to  be  yourself,  father  ?" 

"He's  ever  so  many  years  younger  than  I  am.  And  he's 
done  you  an  immense  honour.  A  man  in  that  position! 
You'll  never  have  such  a  chance  again." 

"I've  had  them  before,"  said  David,  with  the  mock 
meekness  with  which  she  often  cloaked  defiance. 

"Not  a  man  like  Chance.  Why  shouldn't  you  marry 
him?" 

"I  could  never  feel  at  home  with  him." 

"Pooh !  you  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about.  Once 
you  begin  to  call  him  by  his  Christian  name " 

"Oh,  I  couldn't,"  said  David.  "By  the  way,  what  is 
hia  Christian  name?" 

"It's — er — it's  Sampson." 

"That  settles  it.  I  couldn't  address  my  husband  as 
Samson." 

"It's — it  isn't — he  spells  it  with  a  <p'."  The  doctor  was 
almost  pleading.  "I  believe  it's  a — a  family  name." 

"That's  worse.  There's  something  noble  about  the  Bible 
Samson,  but  Sampson  with  a  'p' ! — it  sounds  like  a  shifty 
solicitor." 

"Go !"  said  Lowther,  "and  don't  let  me  see  you  again 
until  you  are  prepared  to  behave  decently." 

David  went,  to  an  anxiously  waiting  mother.  "He's 
very  angry,"  she  said.  "He — could  you  believe  it? — he 
expected  me  to  do  it." 


118  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

"And  you  won't?" 

"Of  course  not." 

"You're  quite  decided,  darling?" 

"Of  course  I  am." 

"Thank  God !"  said  Mrs.  Lowther. 


CHAPTER    XIX 

GALE,  meanwhile,  was  planning  a  tea-party;  bold  in 
idea,  magnificent  as  to  execution.  It  was  bold  to 
invite  Miss  Lowther  and  her  mother  to  come  to  his  poky 
rooms,  for  so,  as  he  thought  of  David,  they  seemed  to 
him ;  but  should  they  deign  to  accept  his  hospitality,  splen- 
dour, so  far  as  flowers  and  cakes  could  compass  it,  should 
be  their  portion.  Covent  Garden  should  be  ransacked  of 
its  choicest  treasures,  and  the  confectioners  of  Bond  Street 
contribute  their  supreme  creations. 

In  fear  and  trembling  he  penned  the  invitation;  his 
heart  was  in  the  drawing-room  of  Harley  Street,  when, 
according  to  careful  calculation,  Mrs.  Lowther  received  it. 
Mrs.  Lowther  might  be  pleased,  he  thought;  she  was  his 
friend,  and  seldom,  he  believed,  went  out  to  tea ;  she  might 
care  to  come.  But  David?  She  might  be  affronted  or 
amused  or — he  couldn't  tell  how  she  might  take  it.  He 
continued  to  picture  various  ways  in  which  David  might 
receive  his  offer  of  hospitality,  till Was  that  the  post- 
man's knock  ?  That  girl  was  always  such  a  devil  of  a  time 
in  going  to  the  door !  Gale  was  downstairs,  leaping  half  the 
flight,  and  back  in  his  room  with  a  letter  in  his  hand  before 
panting  'Melia  had  reached  the  hall. 

Wonder  of  wonders !  "My  daughter  and  I  have  much 
pleasure  in  accepting  your  kind  invitation,"  wrote  Mrs. 
Lowther.  Oh,  how  kind  of  them !  how  friendly !  how — how 
encouraging ! 

119 


120  PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

He  looked  round  the  room.  Flowers  on  the  mantelpiece ; 
flowers  on  the  chiffonier;  flowers  on  the  three-cornered 
stand  in  the  corner;  flowers — brilliant  idea! — on  the  tea- 
table.  Mrs.  Crouch  mnst  put  up  clean  white  curtains.  If 
she  wouldn't,  he  would  go  to  Maple's — or  Hampton's — or 
\vras  Waring  the  tip-top  shop  now  ? — and  buy  curtains  of  his 
own.  He  had  given  a  week's  invitation ;  there  was  no  time 
to  be  lost :  he  rang  the  bell  and  asked  to  see  Mrs.  Crouch. 

Mrs.  Crouch  came,  expectant  and  slightly  anxious;  she 
hoped  it  wasn't  fleas ;  but  if  ever  a  bed  had  been  disinfected 

careful,  that  bed  on  the  first  floor But  Gale's  first 

words  reassurred  her. 

"Mrs.  Crouch,"  said  he,  with  an  attempt  at  indifference, 
"I'm  going  to  give  a  tea-party." 

Mrs.  Crouch  was  instantly  affable.  "Certainly,  sir.  How 
many  guests  might  you  be  expecting?" 

"We  shall  be,  I  expect,  six.  I  want  everything  very — in 
fact,  exceedingly  nice." 

"Which  I  couldn't  allow  it  otherwise,  sir." 

"I  should  like  clean  curtains  up,  the  day  before." 

"Anything  to  oblige,  sir,  if  you  don't  mind  a  trifle  extry 
for  the  washing." 

"Not  at  all.  And — er — I  wonder  if  you  have  any  other 
teacups  than  the  ones  you  usually  give  me.  Very  nice,  of 
course,  for  ordinary  wear ;  but — I'm  expecting  some  ladies." 

"Have  no  fear,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Crouch.  "Mr.  Crouch 
was  in  service  with  the  aristocracy,  and  when  we  married, 
me  being  cook  in  a  county  family,  he  received  a  tea-service 
— Dresding." 

"If  I  can  have  that,  I'll  be  quite  satisfied." 

"My  trousseau  was  a  dozen  teaspoons,  which,  though 
my  mistress  was  plain  Mrs.,  they  were  solid.  And  I  shall 
be  pleased  for  you  to  have  the  loan  of  them." 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS 

"Thank  you !"  said  Gale.    "That's  splendid." 

"No  ladies  couldn't  drink  their  tea  more  refined  in 
their  own  houses,"  said  Mrs.  Crouch,  "nor  stir  it,  than 
what  they'll  do  here." 

More  notes  to  write.  Miss  Barker,  whose  acquaintance 
he  had  made  during  his  Sunday  visits  to  Harley  Street, 
must  be  invited  to  meet  her  friend;  and  then — what  men 
should  he  honour  with  the  opportunity  of  being  introduced 
to  Miss  Lowther?  He  did  not  want  young  men,  because 
young  men  would  want  to  monopolise  David.  Hall,  to 
be  sure,  might  like  to  talk  to  David's  mother  by  way 
of  making  up  to  the  doctor;  but  no,  Hall  was  too  astute 
not  to  realise  that  the  byway  marked  "Mrs.  Lowther" 
would  not  conduct  him  to  the  main  street,  her  husband.  It 
was  a  nuisance  that  Percy  was  no  longer  in  London;  a 
girl's  cousin  was  generally  harmless;  and  he  knew  Miss 
Barker.  By  Jove!  though,  hadn't  Percy  written  that  he 
was  coming  up  next  week,  bringing  a  patient  for  con- 
sultation, and  would  stay  in  town  a  couple  of  nights  ? 

He  ransacked  his  writing-table  for  Burden's  letter. 
Hooray !  splendid !  Percy  was  coming  on  "Wednesday.  He 
would  write  at  once  and  secure  him  for  the  important 
Thursday.  And  for  the  last  guest?  "By  George!"  said 
Gale  to  himself,  "I've  a  good  mind  to  ask  old  Cameron. 
It'll  show  him  that — in  fact,  that  I  want  to  be  civil;  and 
he's  such  a  generous  old  cock  that  he's  sure  to  come  if 
he  can." 

Gale  was  right;  Cameron  accepted  his  invitation;  and 
now  there  was  nothing  more  to  think  of,  except  how  to 
do  honour  to  his  guests. 

On  the  morning  of  the  important  day  Gale  rose  with 
the  dawn,  and  returned  before  'Melia  was  well  awake,  in  a 
cab  filled  within  and  laden  without  with  flowers  and  fruit. 


122  PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS 

Later  on  another  cab,  from  which  Gale's  person,  hemmed 
in  by  sweets  and  confectionery,  had  some  difficulty  in  ex- 
tracting itself,  brought  the  final  materials  of  preparation. 
To  the  work  of  preparation  Gale  devoted  the  greater 
part  of  the  day;  the  two  cases  which  really  required  his 
attendance  were  visited  early  in  the  morning;  the  rest 
must  wait  till  to-morrow. 

A  considerable  work  it  was.  It  occupied  Gale  and 
Mrs.  Crouch  till  well  on  in  the  afternoon.  When  it  was 
completed  Mrs.  Crouch's  "first  floor"  looked  like  some- 
thing between  a  conservatory  and  a  confectioner's  shop. 

"I  hope  there'll  be  enough  to  eat,"  said  Gale  anxiously, 
when  all  at  last  was  ready. 

"Lor',  sir!"  was  Mrs.  Crouch's  only  reply.  Her  smile 
and  tone  amply  made  up  for  her  paucity  of  words:  with 
her  mental  eye  she  saw  the  little  Crouches  feasting  to 
sickness  for  days  ahead. 

She  retreated  downstairs,  and  Gale,  left  alone,  looked 
round  with  critical  eye.  Such  common  food  as  bread  and 
butter  was  sparse,  and,  cut  by  Mrs.  Crouch  herself  and 
reminiscent  of  county  families,  extremely  thin;  Percy 
would  make  away  with  the  whole  of  it  in  a  couple  of 
mouthfuls,  thought  the  anxious  host.  But  cakes  and  sweet- 
meats lay  in  abundance  on  every  available  space,  and  his 
lavish  spirit  could  not  fear  that  David  would  depart 
empty. 

He  walked  up  and  down  the  room,  pausing  now  and 
again  to  listen.  It  was  hardly  the  time  yet,  and  they 
would  probably  not  be  quite  punctual.  Stay!  was  that 
not  a  ring  ?  and — yes,  a  pause,  a  closing  door,  and  'Melia's 
unmistakable  footstep  on  the  stair. 

"Percy,  probably  come  early,"  thought  Gale;  but  when 
'Melia  opened  the  door  she  was  alone. 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  123 

"The  person  called  Jennings  wish  to  see  you,  sir." 

"Sarah  Jennings!  Come  now!  What  a  bore!  Con- 
found her!  Tell  her  I  can't  see  her,"  was  Gale's  first 
thought. 

'Melia  perhaps  saw  it  written  in  his  face.  "She  says 
it's  very  pertick'ler,"  she  said. 

Gale  glanced  at  his  watch.  "Oh,  well,  show  her  up- 
quick  ;  I  haven't  much  time.  Say,"  he  called  after  'Melia's 
retreating  figure,  "say  that  I've  only  five  minutes." 

The  woman  had  been  to  his  rooms  several  times,  and 
he  had  done  his  best  to  help  her,  both  by  giving  her  such 
small  sums  of  money  as  he  could  afford,  and  by  trying  to 
find  her  employment.  The  first  method  was  inadequate, 
the  second  proved  unsuccessful;  there  were  such  numbers 
of  women  wanting  work,  and  Sarah  Jennings,  with  her 
scarred  face,  presented  no  very  attractive  appearance. 
Unluckily,  too,  she  was  of  those  who  are  not  improved 
by  adversity;  misfortune,  far  from  bracing,  depressed 
her.  A  well-meaning  woman,  content  to  earn  her  liveli- 
hood by  hard  work  so  long  as  work  could  be  secured,  but 
nervous  in  temperament  and  not  too  strong  in  body,  pri- 
vation and  anxiety  weakened  both  her  moral  fibre  and  her 
physical  frame;  months  of  vain  endeavour  had  produced 
in  her  a  tendency  to  lose  heart;  perhaps  also  a  tendency 
to  seek  hope  or  hide  from  despair  in  the  only  way  that 
seemed  open  to  her.  ;0nce  lately  when  she  had  come  to 
his  lodgings  Gale  had  fancied  that  he  detected  in  her  a 
slight  confusion  of  ideas,  a  slight  unsteadiness  of  speech; 
and  his  sympathy  received  a  shock:  for  he  had  not  yet 
thought  deeply  enough  to  have  escaped  from  the  wide- 
spread idea  that  those  who  are  touched  by  trial  must 
immediately  rise  to  heroism. 

According   to  this   idea,   a   tramp,   doing   his   ten   or 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS 

fifteen  or  twenty  miles  a  day,  must  never  enter  a  public- 
house,  however  thirsty  he  may  be,  however  weary  or  de- 
pressed, however  weak  from  the  starvation  diet  of  the 
casual  ward;  if  he  does,  if  he  fails  to  display  unfailing 
fortitude,  he  is  an  undeserving  case,  worthy  neither  of 
aid  nor  sympathy.  His  neighbour,  travelling  on  a  bicycle, 
may  go  in  and  out,  beheld  and  uncondemned  of  all  men; 
nay,  even  those  who  walk  from  choice  may  with  impunity 
do  the  same;  but  as  soon  as  it  is  necessity  which  limits 
the  means  of  locomotion  to  the  feet,  a  man  must  rise 
above  the  common  needs  of  men.  According  to  this  idea, 
those  dismissed  from  one  kind  of  employment  must  be- 
come instantly  capable  of  taking  up  any  other;  a  man  who 
has  been  a  clerk  must  be  able  to  do  a  day's  work  in  the 
dockyard  without  turning  a  hair.  If  the  hair,  like  the  trod- 
den worm,  does  turn,  if  aching  muscles  and  trembling  limbs 
compel  cessation  of  the  unwonted  task,  he  is  an  idle  beg- 
gar who  won't  work  when  work  is  offered  him.  Accord- 
ing to  this  idea,  men  and  women,  struggling  for  bare  sub- 
sistence, crushed  by  anxiety  or  hopeless  in  destitution, 
must  be  cast  in  so  perfect  a  mould  as  to  depart  no  whit 
from  the  path  of  honesty,  sobriety,  cleanliness,  industry, 
and  resignation. 

Nevertheless,  it  is  a  fact,  plain  and  actual,  that  misery 
does  not  stamp  out  all  human  weaknesses;  that  industry 
is  not  the  inevitable  result  of  being  thrown  out  of  work; 
that  empty  bellies  do  not  directly  inculcate  sobriety.  It 
is  possible  to  be  wretched,  yet  faulty ;  and  possible  to  sink 
below  the  level  of  heroic  endurance,  and  yet  to  be  not 
altogether  an  undeserving  case. 

But  these  facts,  patent,  it  would  seem,  elude  the  ob- 
servation of  the  majority  of  those  who  need  take  no 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS  125 

thought  for  to-morrow's  breakfast;  and  to  that  majority 
Sidney  Gale,  in  the  first  year  of  his  medical  practice, 
belonged.  So  that  when  Sarah  Jennings  showed  signs  of 
having  borrowed  courage  from  that  usurer  whose  terms 
lead  frequently  to  insolvency  of  will-power  and  of  nerves, 
his  sympathy  cooled.  Now,  when  for  the  second  time  she 
presented  herself  in  the  condition  best  described  as  mud- 
dled, disgust  laid  hold  on  him.  The  disgust  no  doubt 
was  deepened  by  the  fact  that  his  own  mood  was  one  of 
nervous  expectation;  a  mood  which  was  far  from  fitting 
him  to  enter  into  the  woes,  or  indeed  joys,  of  any  of  his 
fellows,  save  only  those  of  the  one  particular  expected 
guest;  and  that  he  was  in  a  fever  of  impatience  to  get 
rid  of  this  unlooked-for  skeleton  before  his  feast  should 
begin. 

Matilda  Jennings,  aged  three,  was  sickening,  it  would 
appear,  for  measles.  Very  distressing,  of  course;  but  he 
would  have  listened  to  the  recital  of  her  symptoms  with 
more  active  pity  had  that  recital  not  been  interrupted  by 
an  occasional  hiccough,  and  had  not  his  mind  been  domi- 
nated by  the  thought  that  even  now  a  hansom  was  prob- 
ably bearing  David  towards  his  door. 

"I'll  come  round — to-morrow  morning."  (Was  that 
wheels?  Turning  into  Hart  Street?)  "Or  to-night— 

(Yes,  by  Jove!)    "In  an  hour  or  two "     (Powers  that 

be!  stopping!  stopping  just  outside!)  "And — and  here's 
half  a  crown.  I  can't  stop.  I  mean  you  can't  stop — I'm 
engaged " 

A  knock  at  the  front  door !  In  a  minute  she'll  be  here, 
in  the  room! 

"Go,  Mrs.  Jennings,"  cried  Gale,  "please  go!"  Then 
quickly,  "No,  don't !" 

David  must  not  be  shocked  by  meeting  such  a  figure  on 


126  PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

the  stairs,  with  sideward  tilted  hat,  and  such  an  ugly,  dis- 
figured face. 

"Come  in  here/'  he  said,  "and  wait — till  I  come  for 
you." 

In  a  trice  he  had  whisked  Mrs.  Jennings  out  on  to  the 
landing  and  into  his  bedroom  at  the  back,  had  banged  the 
door  on  her  beery  astonishment,  and  was  once  more  in  the 
sitting-room,  panting  but  relieved.  It  would  be  easy  to 
excuse  himself  presently  and  conduct  the  uninvited  guest 
to  the  street. 

He  had  barely  time  to  assume  an  outward  calm  when 
the  door  flew  open  and  Percy  bounded  in. 

Gale  wiped  his  forehead.  "God  bless  you,  Percy,  old 
chap/'  he  said.  "I  thought  you  were  the  Lowthers." 


CHAPTER   XX 

BURDON  looked  at  his  friend  with  raised  eyebrows. 
"And  if  I  had  been  the  Lowthers?"  he  inquired. 
"Don't  you  expect  them?  I  thought  I  was  asked  to  meet 
them." 

Gale  began  to  laugh.  Percy's  face  conveyed  to  him  for 
the  first  time  a  hint  of  comedy  in  the  situation.  "Yes,  of 

course,"  he  said,  "but  the  fact  is Just  wait  a  minute, 

though;  there's  a  woman  in  my  bedroom,  and " 

He  dashed  out  on  to  the  landing  without  seeing  Burden's 
expression  of  astonished  consternation ;  but  on  the  landing 
was  brought  up  short;  there  was  a  rustle  of  skirts  on  the 
staircase,  and  a  voice  that  he  knew  said — 

"I  hope  we're  not  too  prosaically  punctual." 

Gale,  his  cheeks  aflame  and  his  hair  like  an  opaque  halo, 
went  forward  to  receive  his  guests. 

He  conducted  them  with  mingled  pride  and  diffidence  to 
his  flower-filled  room;  he  was  glad  Burdon  was  there  to 
help  him  through  the  first  difficult  moments.  Shy  in  the 
presence  of  the  girl  whose  visit  he  had  so  ardently  looked 
forward  to,  he  devoted  his  attention  exclusively  at  first 
to  her  mother;  while  Percy  recovered  sufficiently  from  the 
puzzled  uneasiness  into  which  Gale's  words  had  thrown 
him  to  remark  to  his  cousin,  with  a  glance  at  the  laden 
tables,  "What  a  blow-out!" 

Miss  Barker  followed  quickly  upon  her  friends,  and  soon 
after  came  John  Cameron.  Cameron  had  to  be  introduced 

127 


128  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

to  Mrs.  Lowther  and  Miss  Barker,  to  shake  hands  with 
Percy  and  David,  and  then  to  ask  the  former  how  he  was 
getting  on;  and  thus  David  was  left  free  to  express  her 
admiration  of  the  wealth  of  flowers  collected  for  her 
pleasure. 

Then  came  'Melia,  laden  with  tea  and  coffee,  with  hot 
milk  and  steaming  kettle;  and  in  the  delight  and  excite- 
ment of  it  all;  in  the  pride  of  watching  Miss  Lowther 
pour  out  tea  in  this,  his  room;  in  the  passing  of  cups, 
cakes,  and  fruit;  and  in  the  constant  necessity  of  smooth- 
ing down  his  rampant  hair,  Sarah  Jennings,  her  delin- 
quencies, her  ailing  child,  and  her  near  neighbourhood 
were  forgotten. 

There  could  be  no  doubt  that  David  was  enjoying  her- 
self. The  coffee,  to  be  sure,  was  too  weak,  and  the  tea  was 
too  strong;  but  the  cakes  were  a  triumph  of  art,  and  the 
fruit  was  perfection.  And  then  the  flowers !  A  critic  might 
have  said  there  were  too  many,  but  what  woman  ever 
quarrelled  with  profusion,  planned  to  do  her  honour? 
Certainly  not  David  Lowther.  She  was  well  aware  that 
the  wealth  of  blossoms  was  incense  offered  at  her  shrine, 
and  was  pleased  by  the  magnificence  of  the  tribute;  not 
more  than  pleased ;  since  the  mating  of  liking  and  interest 
with  which  she  regarded  Gale  had  not  yet  formed  and 
cradled  in  her  heart  the  offspring,  love. 

Having  seen  to  the  needs  of  his  guests,  Gale  approached 
her.  '^You've  been  so  busy  pouring  out  that  you've  had 
no  time  to  eat.  What  will  you  have  ?" 

David,  cloyed  with  sweets,  longed  for  a  piece  of  plain 
bread  and  butter,  but  a  kindly  appreciation  of  Gale's 
preparations  caused  her  to  curb  her  desire  for  simplicity 
to  the  extent  of  asking  for  some  grapes.  She  ate  them 
daintily,  stripping  each  one  of  its  skin  before  putting  it 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS  129 

into  her  mouth,  and  Gale  stood  by  in  charmed  admira- 
tion ;  it  was  like  her,  he  said  to  himself,  to  avoid  the  vile- 
ness  of  spitting  out  the  skins.  Miss  Barker,  as  it  hap- 
pened, was  eating  grapes  in  precisely  the  same  way,  but 
the  method  did  not  strike  him  as  characteristic  of  Miss 
Barker. 

Miss  Barker,  however,  proved  to  be  a  valuable  guest, 
not  only  because  she  held  Percy  captive  during  tea,  but 
because  she  was  a  musician,  and,  tea  over,  played  upon 
the  piano  which  belonged  to  Mrs.  Crouch's  aunt,  and  which 
Gale,  with  alert  foresight,  had  had  tuned  for  the  occasion. 
It  took  some  time  to  disembarrass  it  from  its  burden  of 
flowers;  but,  that  being  done,  how  delightful  to  inveigle 
Miss  Lowther  on  to  the  balcony,  to  listen  there  to  the 
strains  of  Grieg,  and  to  feel  that,  not  being  actually  in 
the  room  with  the  player,  it  was  not  impolite  to  make 
occasional  remarks  in  low  and  confidential  tones ! 

Miss  Lowther  found  it  pleasant,  too.  Gale's  voice  had 
always  made  appeal  to  her;  his  chest  notes  lent  interest 
to  even  trivial  remarks;  and  to-day  there  was  a  thrill  in 
the  tones  and  a  personal  tendency  in  the  remarks  which 
deepened  the  interest  and  created  in  her  little  thrills  of 
new  emotion. 

Mrs.  Lowther,  seated  within,  in  a  black  silk  cloak  and 
a  mud-coloured  alpaca,  was  thinking  far  more  of  the 
couple  on  the  balcony  than  of  her  friend's  music.  Heart 
and  soul,  she  was  in  favour  of  Gale's  suit,  and  that  less 
because  she  liked  Gale  than  because  she  feared  his  rival. 
She  knew  the  doctor,  and  she  knew,  or  thought  she  knew, 
the  weakness  of  youth;  so  long  as  David  was  fancy  free, 
so  long  was  there  the  chance  of  Cranley-Chance  becoming 
her  husband.  But  love  once  roused — by  another,  of  course, 
than  Chance — David  would  stand  firm,  and  her  mother 


130  PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

was  ready  to  welcome  Gale,  both  as  a  son-in-law  and  a 
saviour.  To  be  sure,  she  knew  but  little  of  him,  of  his 
views  of  life,  his  opinions,  his  prospects;  but  he  had  won 
her  heart;  and  she  desired  ardently  to  give  David  into  his 
keeping. 

It  is  proverbial  that  lookers-on  see  most  of  the  game, 
and  Cameron,  not  being  deficient  in  perception,  was  well 
aware  of  what  Mrs.  Lowther  had  in  her  mind  when,  Miss 
Barker  having  ceased  playing,  and  Percy  being  engaged 
at  the  piano  in  trying  to  find  a  song  he  could  sing  amongst 
her  music,  the  little  pale  woman  began  to  talk  about  Gale. 

"I  suppose  you  know  Mr.  Gale  very  well?"  she  asked 
in  her  timid  tones. 

Cameron,  Scotch,  had  the  Scotch  wariness,  and  the 
Scotch  faculty  of  parrying  question  with  question.  "Can 
an  old  man  know  a  young  one  very  well?"  he  answered. 

Mrs.  Lowther  reflected.  "I  think  so;  if  he  remembers 
what  he  felt  like  when  he  was  young." 

"You  would  feel,  then,  that  the  young  cannot  know 
the  old,  having  no  experience  of  the  outlook  of  age  ?" 

"Very  likely  not,"  said  Mrs.  Lowther;  she  was  in  no 
mood  for  abstract  discussion.  "But  about  Mr.  Gale.  I 
think  very  well  of  him;  and  I — I  hope  you  agree  with 
me?" 

"Yes,  I  like  Gale,  and  I  think" — Cameron  spoke  slowly 
— "he  will  make  his  mark." 

The  very  last  thing  he  desired  for  Sidney  was  to  be 
Lowther's  son-in-law,  a  position  which  would  ensure  his 
being  penned  within  the  orthodox  fold;  yet  he  could  not 
put  a  spoke  in  the  wheel  of  the  young  man's  success,  no 
matter  in  what  direction  that  wheel  was  turning.  It  was 
not  for  him  to  mould  Gale's  destiny. 

"I  don't  mind  about  that,"  Mrs.  Lowther  answered;  "I 


PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS  131 

mind  only  about  character.  I  think  he  would  be  kind." 
The  remark,  assertive  in  form,  held  an  interrogative  note. 

"I  am  sure  of  it." 

"Some  men  think  that  if  women  don't  agree  with  all 

their  views  they  are  silly  or  sentimental;  and  I " 

Mrs.  Lowther  stopped.  Unused  to  the  expression  of  any 
but  the  simplest  thoughts,  the  diplomatic  acquiring  of 
information  was  hopelessly  beyond  her. 

But  Cameron  had  in  him  enough  of  the  diplomat  to 
perceive,  as  was  indeed  not  difficult,  what  his  companion 
wanted  to  know. 

"I  don't  think  our  young  friend  would  think  it  neces- 
sary to  impose  his  views  on  anybody — man  or  woman,"  he 
said. 

"Xo?  So  I  think."  Mrs.  Lowther  gave  a  little  sigh. 
"I  wish  I  knew  what  his  views  are." 

Cameron  laughed.  "That  would  be  a  difficult  thing  for 
anybody  to  say,  I  fancy — himself  included." 

"You  don't  think  he's  very " 

"Dogmatic?" 

"Yes;  I  couldn't  find  the  word.     Or  scientific?" 

Again  Cameron  laughed.  "Perhaps  you  think  the  terms 
synonymous.  At  present,"  he  went  on,  "I  should  be  in- 
clined to  describe  Gale's  condition  as  one  of  fluid  enthu- 
siasm. It  remains  to  be  seen  into  what  channel  it  will 
pour  itself,  or  whether  it  will,  perhaps,  hew  out  one  of 
its  own." 

"Scientific  men  are  often  hard,  I  think." 

"Sometimes;  some  of  them." 

"I  mean,  of  course,  in  the  profession — my  husband's 
profession.  Astronomers  and  botanists — well,  of  course,  it 

wouldn't  be  the  same "  She  stopped,  for  just  then 

Burdon  began  to  sing  in  a  very  deep  bass  voice. 


132  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

"I  always  wonder/*  said  David  on  the  balcony,  "if 
Percy  takes  off  his  voice  when  he  takes  off  his  boots." 

Gale  laughed,  and  was  half  ashamed  of  himself  for 
doing  so.  "He's  a  dear  old  chap,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  I  know;  but  that  doesn't  prevent  his  voice  coming 
from  very  low  down.  Let  us  go  in  and  hear  him  growl. 
It's  quite  fitting  that  Doggie — I  call  Miss  Barker  Doggie 
— should  be  playing  his  accompaniment." 

So  they  came  back  into  the  room,  both  somewhat  elated, 
Gale  by  hope,  David  by  the  vague  delightful  sensations 
which  herald  the  advent  of  love. 

When  Percy's  song  was  over,  Mrs.  Lowther  rose  to  go. 
"I've  enjoyed  myself  so  much,"  she  said,  as  she  shook 
Sidney's  hand.  "We  both  have." 

"Are  you  coming  with  us,  Doggie?"  David  asked.  "It's 
no  good  asking  you,  Percy.  You'll  stay  with  Mr.  Gale,  I 
suppose,  and  smoke?" 

"Yes,  I  think  so,  unless  you  want  me." 

"Oh,  not  at  all.    Don't  let  that  trouble  you." 

"We  shall  see  you  at  dinner,  Percy?" 

"Yes,  Aunt  Bertha,  certainly.    Thanks  very  much." 

Percy,  in  truth,  was  longing  for  an  explanation  of  the 
disturbing  words  with  which  Gale  had  greeted  him.  It 
was  all  very  well.  Sidney  was  a  wild  chap,  and  had  done 
many  mad  things ;  but  when  he  had  asked  a  fellow's  aunt 

and  cousin  to  tea,  it  was  indecent — positively  indecent 

The  unexplained  woman  had  sat  on  Percy's  chest  all 
through  the  entertainment,  and  dimmed  even  the  pleasure 
of  singing  "I  fear  no  foe  in  shining  armour,"  to  Miss 
Barker's  very  delightful  accompaniment.  Gale,  on  the 
contrary,  had  forgotten  her  very  existence.  But  he  was 
soon  to  be  reminded  of  it. 

Coming  out  on  to  the  landing  to  see  his  guests  down- 


PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS  133 

stairs,  his  speech,  his  progress,  and  his  elation  were  sud- 
denly brought  to  a  dead  and  horrified  standstill  by  the 
sight  of  a  figure  which,  at  the  same  instant,  emerged  from 
his  bedroom  door.  When  David  had  first  arrived  Gale 
had  thought  that  figure  unfit  for  her  eyes  to  rest  upon; 
but  the  Sarah  Jennings  of  an  hour  and  a  half  ago  was 
pleasing  and  presentable  compared  with  the  Sarah  Jen- 
nings of  the  moment.  For  Gale  had  left  upon  his  dress- 
ing-table a  flask  of  brandy  destined  for  the  use  of  one  of 
his  poorer  patients.  It  had  been  nearly  full  when  his 
untimely  visitor  had  entered  the  room;  it  was  now  nearly 
empty. 

Dismay  was  on  every  face  as  Sidney  Gale  stopped  short 
— except  upon  the  face  of  Sarah  Jennings.  She,  slightly 
lurching,  made  her  way  to  the  head  of  the  stairs,  and, 
grasping  the  banisters,  stood  with  a  vacant  and  contented 
smile,  repeating  feebly,  "After  you,  ma'am,  after  you." 


CHAPTER    XXI 

"T  SHOULD  wait,"  said  Lowther.     "Girls  never  know 

A       their  own  minds/' 

'Tour  daughter  writes  as  if  she  knew  hers,"  Cranley- 
Chance  answered. 

"She  thinks  she  does."  Lowther's  tone  was  contemptu- 
ous. "If  you'd  done  as  much  clinical  work  as  I  have,  you'd 
know  that  girls  are  either  hysterically  romantic  or  hys- 
terically disturbed.  David  is  the  romantic  kind,  and  her 
romance  has  taken  the  form  of  imagining  she  wants  to  be 
an  artist.  She'll  get  over  it,  and  if  you've  got  the  patience 
to  wait,  you  can  catch  her  at  the  psychological  moment. 
Lucky  for  you  you  haven't  got  a  more  serious  rival." 

"Don't  know  that  I  haven't.    What  about  young  Gale?" 

"Who's  young  Gale?" 

"You  ought  to  know,  as  it  was  at  your  house  I  met  him. 
A  friend  of  Burdon's — and  of  your  wife's." 

"Don't  remember  anything  about  him.  What  is  he? 
What's  he  do?" 

"Beginning  practice — G.P." 

"Phew!  Suppose  I'm  going  to  give  my  daughter  to  a 
beggar  ?" 

"She  may  not  look  on  him  as  a  beggar." 

"What  does  that  matter?    Ain't  I  her  father?" 

"It's  a  wise  father  can  manage  his  own  daughter," 
paraphrased  Chance  gloomily. 

"What  do  you  know  about  him  ?" 

134 


PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS  135 

"Oh,  not  much.  Better  ask  Moreton  Shand.  He  was 
at  St.  Anne's.  They  say,"  added  Chance,  seeking  after 
generous  utterance,  but  arriving  only  at  what  sounded  like 
a  sneer,  "he's  clever." 

"A  friend  of  Percy's!     Not  likely." 

"Hall's  a  friend  of  Burden's,  too." 

"Hall's  certainly  got  his  head  screwed  on  right.  But 
that's  a  chance.  Percy's  not  likely  to  have  another  friend 
of  that  calibre." 

"A  friend  of  Percy's — probably  an  ass;  a  friend  of 
Bertha's — bound  to  be  a  milksop,"  thought  the  doctor  on 
his  way  home.  It  occurred  to  him,  thinking  over  what 
Chance  had  said,  that  he  would  go  and  find  Moreton 
Shand;  it  was  just  the  hour  when  he  would  be  likely  to 
catch  him. 

Shand  was  at  home,  and  Lowther  came  away  from  the 
interview  triumphant.  Not  only  an  ass,  but  an  arrogant 
ass,  with  leanings  towards  anti-vivisectionist  ideas,  and  a 
not  too  good  reputation  for  steadiness;  he  would  prob- 
ably find  himself  in  a  position  to  forbid  Gale  the  house, 
and  check  any  budding  ideas  as  to  falling  in  love  on  the 
part  of  David. 

David's  announcement  at  dinner  that  she  and  her  moth- 
er had  had  tea  with  Gale  that  very  afternoon  caused 
Lowther  to  prick  up  his  ears ;  there  was  perhaps  something 
more  than  a  rival's  fears  in  what  Chance  had  said.  Well, 
he  would  soon  put  a  stop  to  it  all;  especially  as  David's 
tendency  to  silence  during  the  meal  did  not  escape  his 
aroused  observation. 

After  dinner,  port  wine  and  cigars  were  preliminaries 
to  questioning  Percy  about  his  friend. 

Percy  was  loyal,  but  he  was  also,  this  evening,  dis- 
gusted. His  interview  with  Gale,  after  the  scene  which 


136  PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

ended  the  tea-party,  had  changed  suspicion  to  certainty, 
and  he  was  in  that  state  of  affronted  indignation  com- 
monly called  righteous.  For  Gale,  quite  unconscious  of 
what  was  in  Percy's  mind,  had  submitted  to  the  latter's 
strictures  with  unquestioning  meekness.  To  him  his  of- 
fence seemed  so  black  that  he  did  not  occupy  himself  in 
thinking  how  it  could  have  been  blacker.  That  he  should 
so  far  have  forgotten  himself  as  to  forget  Sarah  Jennings, 
and  so  subject  David  to  the  risk  of  what  had  actually  oc- 
curred, appeared  to  him  unpardonable;  and  he  was  in 
no  wise  astonished  that  Percy  should  take  the  same  view. 
He  longed,  it  is  true,  for  sympathy,  for  a  drop  of  balm  to 
soothe  the  soreness  of  his  discomfiture,  but  was  too  humbly 
contrite  to  resent  either  the  absence  of  consolation  or  the 
violence  of  the  epithets  with  which  Burden  characterised 
his  conduct. 

When  questioned  by  the  doctor,  therefore,  Percy's  an- 
swers lacked  the  whole-hearted  conviction  they  would  have 
displayed  had  the  questions  been  put  to  him  a  few  hours 
earlier.  He  did  not  want  to  betray  his  friend,  but  he 
stammered  and  hesitated;  his  replies  were  unwilling  and 
evasive. 

Lowther  understood  that  Gale  had  a  reputation  for 
rowdiness.  Was  this  rowdiness  at  all  connected  with 
women  ? 

Percy  reddened.  He  was  not  sufficiently  in  Gale's  con- 
fidence to 

No,  but  what  did  he  think  ? 

Percy,  with  the  scene  of  the  afternoon  vivid  before  him, 
said  he — he  could  hardly  say;  it — it  might  be  so.  Not 

more  perhaps  than  many  another,  but He  was  vexed 

with  himself  at  what  he  was  saying,  and  furious  with 
Gale  in  that  he  could  not  avoid  saying  it.  It  was  all 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS  137 

very  well,  but  he  saw,  of  course,  what  Uncle  Bernard  was 
after,  and  he  was  damned  if  he  did  think  Sidney  was 
good  enough  for  David. 

Uncle  Bernard,  for  his  part,  had  rarely  been  so  pleased 
with  his  nephew:  he  had  held  a  good  hand  to  begin  with, 
he  thought,  but  Percy  had  given  him  trump  cards  which 
made  the  game  he  was  about  to  play  exceedingly  simple. 

That  very  night  the  game  began:  Lowther  would  be 
glad  if  his  wife  would  give  him  a  few  minutes  before 
going  up  to  bed.  Bertha,  intuitive  by  nature  and  fearful 
by  habit,  guessed  what  was  coming;  and  the  forces  which 
but  a  short  time  before  she  could  have  brought  to  the 
encounter,  weak  in  themselves,  were  now  considerably  dis- 
abled. Bernard,  of  course,  would  rebel  against  accept- 
ing Gale  as  a  son-in-law;  the  terrible  thing  was  that  she 
was  torn  with  doubts  as  to  whether,  for  reasons  quite  other 
than  her  husband's,  she  did  not  agree  with  him.  She  was 
disposed  to  be  charitable,  and  poor  Sarah  Jennings'  ap- 
pearance was  not  such  as  she  had  been  accustomed  to  as- 
sociate with  a  world  about  which  she  preferred  not  to 
think;  but  the  circumstances  of  her  intrusion  on  the  scene 
were  uncomfortably  suspicious,  and  Gale  had  been  covered 
with  what  appeared  like  guilty  confusion. 

Lowther,  in  playing  his  game,  was  astute.  He  argued 
that  his  wife  was  an  ignorant  as  well  as  an  innocent 
woman;  he  credited  her  with  the  harsh  judgment  and  the 
shrinking  dismay  to  which  ignorant  innocence  is  prone; 
and,  making  no  mention  of  Gale's  financial  or  professional 
prospects,  he  based  his  disapproval  entirely  on  the  young 
man's  immoral  character,  which  he  represented  as  being 
recognised  and  notorious. 

Mrs.  Lowther  had  put  away  her  knitting  for  the  night, 
and  her  unoccupied  hands  moved  nervously. 


138  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

"Yon  are  quite  sure  what  you  say  is  true?"  she  said. 

"Ask  Percy.  I've  been  questioning  him  on  the  subject. 
You  can  do  the  same." 

Bertha  looked  down  in  distressed  silence.  Could  any- 
thing be  more  conclusive?  There  was  this  rumour,  found- 
ed, doubtless,  on  fact  of  some  kind,  or  it  could  not  have 
reached  Bernard's  ears;  there  was  the  picture  of  that  dis- 
reputable woman  on  the  landing;  and  there  was  Percy's 
evidence  which  gave  the  picture  a  shameful  explanation. 
She  was  less  ignorant  and  also  less  conventional  than  her 
husband  supposed,  but  she  shrank,  as  he  expected  her  to 
shrink,  from  the  coarseness  of  sexual  excesses;  and  she 
had  not  sufficient  mental  independence  to  weigh  character 
against  circumstantial  evidence.  She  judged  less  hardly 
in  the  abstract  than  many  women  of  limited  observation; 
but  where  her  own  daughter  was  concerned,  her  code  be- 
came rigid. 

"You  will  see,"  Lowther  went  on,  "that  we  should  be 
wrong  in  encouraging  Mr.  Gale  to  come  to  the  house.  He 
evidently  admires  David,  and  it  would  never  do  to  run 
the  risk  of  her  taking  a  fancy  to  such  a  man  as  I  know 
him  to  be." 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Lowther,  "no.  But  I've  always  liked 
him;  and  it's  hard  to  believe " 

"No  woman  can  tell  what  a  man's  like  from  seeing  him 
in  a  drawing-room,"  said  the  doctor  decisively. 

"That's  true,"  assented  Mrs.  Lowther. 

She  went  to  bed  sorrowfully,  all  the  more  sorrowfully 
because  to  her  was  deputed  the  task  of  informing  David 
that  Gale  must  come  no  more  to  Harley  Street.  And  the 
statement  of  the  doctor's  decision  would  not,  she  was  well 
aware,  complete  that  task.  David  would  never  consent 
to  give  up  a  friend  simply  because  she  was  told  to,  espe- 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS  139 

daily  if,  as  might  well  be  the  case,  her  feeling  for  Gale 
had  gone  further  than  friendship;  and  her  mother  would 
be  obliged  to  tell  or  hint  to  her  the  reason  why  he  was 
forbidden  the  house.  She  hardly  slept  that  night,  in  her 
distress;  while  Lowther  lay  awake  calculating  the  added 
chances  in  his  friend's  courtship. 

David's  rest  was  troubled  by  the  thought  of  the  sordid 
ugliness  which  for  the  first  time  had  come  close  within  her 
vision;  Percy  was  disturbed  by  a  mingling  of  anger  with 
Gale  and  a  sense  that  he  had  betrayed  him;  and  Gale 
himself  did  not  go  to  bed  at  all  till  well  after  dawn. 

Sarah  Jennings,  meanwhile,  snored  comfortably,  sunk 
in  the  deep  sleep  which  is  the  portion  of  the  just  and  the 
drunk. 


CHAPTER   XXII 

THE  fact  that  Sidney  Gale  saw  Matilda  Jennings 
through  the  measles  and  forgave  Matilda's  mother 
proves  perhaps  less  generosity  on  his  part  than  might  at 
first  appear;  for  he  did  not  in  the  least  realise  the  extent 
to  which  the  unfortunate  woman  had  injured  him. 

Sarah,  sober,  was  overwhelmed  by  the  proceedings  of 
Sarah  drunk;  she  had  disgraced  herself,  she  felt,  in  the 
eyes  of  her  constant  and  almost  her  only  friend;  she 
longed  to  make  reparation,  and  begged  to  be  allowed  to 
pay  for  the  brandy  which  had  so  fatally  relieved  the  tedium 
of  her  detention.  The  taking  of  the  brandy  seemed  to 
her  the  worst  feature  of  her  offence,  for  she  had  been  drunk 
more  than  once,  and  custom  had  dimmed  the  fervour  of 
her  contrition;  but  she  had  never  taken  anything  that 
did  not  belong  to  her,  and  the  idea  that  she  had  thieved 
added  weight  to  her  shame.  Gale  was  touched  by  its 
depth,  and  had  no  inclination  except  to  forgive  her. 

He  was  able  in  a  day  or  two  to  look  back  with  calmness 
on  the  catastrophe  which  had  closed  his  party.  He  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  he  had  exaggerated  its  importance, 
but  decided  that  in  his  vexation  and  embarrassment  he 
had  not  offered  adequate  apologies  for  what  had  happened. 
Percy  evidently  was  of  that  opinion,  or  he  would  never 
have  slated  him  in  the  unmeasured  terms  in  which  he  had 
indulged.  On  reflection  it  seemed  to  Gale  that  Percy  had 

140 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  141 

been  unwarrantably  abusive;  for,  after  all,  what  had  hap- 
pened had  been  mischance,  and  not  studied  insult,  which 
was  what  one  might  have  deduced  from  Burdon's  criti- 
cisms. Well,  he  would  put  the  matter  right,  and  then  in- 
form Percy  by  letter  that  he  was  an  ass. 

He  longed  to  set  out  for  Harley  Street  forthwith,  the 
necessary  apology  furnishing  a  good  excuse  for  an  im- 
mediate visit;  but  decided  to  wait  till  Sunday,  a  day  on 
which  Mrs.  Lowther  was  invariably  at  home.  His  heart 
lightened.  Mrs.  Lowther — and  David — would  be  sure  to 
forgive  him  when  they  understood  how  the  scene  on  the 
landing  had  come  about,  and  would  perhaps  be  induced  to 
take  an  interest  in  Sarah  Jennings. 

On  Sunday  morning  he  cleaned  his  boots  with  extra 
care.  'Melia  was  not  good  at  polishing,  and  Gale  was 
accustomed  to  putting  a  shine  on  the  cloudy  surface  of 
her  hastily  applied  blacking.  To-day  that  surface  gleamed 
unusually  smooth  and  bright,  and  he  forgot  the  aching 
muscles  of  his  arm  in  the  satisfaction  evoked  by  the  aspect 
of  his  feet. 

At  a  quarter  to  four  he  sallied  forth,  tempted  to  take 
a  hansom  to  shorten  the  time  of  ^transit,  but  finally  de- 
ciding to  walk,  for  fear  he  should  arrive  too  soon.  How 
would  Miss  Lowther  greet  him?  She  had  not,  perhaps, 
been  so  disgusted  as  he  had  thought,  and  she  was  so  sen- 
sible and  so  generous  that  she  would  surely  not  have  taken 

offence.  When  it  was  all  explained,  then Here  he  was, 

at  the  very  door. 

He  rang  the  bell;  his  right-hand  glove  was  off  before 
the  man  answered  its  summons.  He  prepared  to  step 
inside  as  soon  as  the  door  was  opened. 

"Mrs.  Lowther ?" 


142  PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

But  the  man  barred  his  way.  Mrs.  Lowther  was  not 
at  home. 

Every  man  who  has  been  young  and  in  love  and  has 
gone  with  joyful  expectancy  to  call  at  the  house  of  the 
beloved,  will  know  what  Gale  felt  like.  Mrs.  Lowther, 
when  his  card  was  brought  to  her,  endured  a  sympathetic 
pang,  and  had  to  concentrate  her  thoughts  on  that  un- 
known disreputable  woman  before  she  could  regain  a 
properly  severe  attitude  of  mind. 

David,  sitting  by  the  window,  saw  Gale  cross  the  street; 
saw,  too,  the  dejection  of  his  bearing;  but  David  felt  no 
pang.  She  had,  as  Mrs.  Lowther  had  foreseen,  insisted 
upon  being  told  the  reason  of  Gale's  intended  dismissal, 
and  the  reason,  vaguely  explained  to  her,  had  killed  all 
pity  for  the  culprit.  Naturally  pure  in  mind  and  devoid  of 
curiosity,  living  a  sheltered  and  limited  life,  she  hardly 
knew  of,  and  certainly  did  not  realise,  the  existence  of 
that  which  Mrs.  Lowther's  explanation  indicated.  Judy, 
indeed,  for  whom  impropriety  did  not  exist,  and  who  held 
that  young  people  of  both  sexes  should  be  given  sufficient 
knowledge  to  protect  themselves  against  evils  which  ig- 
norance could  not  annihilate,  had  sometimes  spoken  frank- 
ly in  the  course  of  the  diatribes  of  which  she  delivered 
herself;  but  the  key  to  comprehension  had  been  lacking, 
and  David,  hearing,  had  not  understood.  Now  knowl- 
edge and  understanding  burst  suddenly  and  together  upon 
her  consciousness,  and  presented  themselves  not  in  con- 
nection with  a  general  disorder,  but  as  exponents  of  a 
particular  case.  She  knew  Gale,  had  talked  with  him, 
danced  with  him;  nay,  had  stood  with  him  on  a  balcony, 
and  listened  to  words  and  tones  which  had  thrilled  her 
to  new  and  exquisite  sensation,  investing  the  common- 
place street  below  with  magical  glamour.  In  the  shock 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  14-3 

caused  by  her  mother's  words,  she  revolted  in  disgust  from 
the  thought  of  the  man  who  had  so  nearly  charmed  her; 
and  the  love  which  was  about  to  enter  into  being  was 
strangled  at  the  birth.  Perhaps  because  of  that  dawning 
love,  the  bitterness  of  her  feeling  was  keener;  perhaps 
because  her  heart  was  secretly  attracted  to  Gale,  her  soul 
was  more  ardent  in  revolt. 

In  the  pain  which  she  suffered,  and  which  pride  refused 
to  acknowledge,  she  became  more  than  ever  determined  to 
follow  the  artist's  career.  She  abjured  marriage  and  made 
up  her  mind  to  avoid  men;  art  should  absorb  her  interest, 
her  efforts,  and  her  profoundest  affection.  So  much  did 
Gale's  supposed  conduct  strengthen  the  resolution  which 
his  personality  had  threatened  to  destroy,  that  she  found 
courage  during  the  following  week  to  inform  Lowther  of 
the  lines  on  which  her  life  was  to  be  lived. 

He  listened  at  first  in  incredulous  contempt  and  with  a 
secret  satisfaction  that  he  had  been  able  to  interfere  in 
what  he  called  Gale's  designs  before  they  had  made  further 
progress.  It  was  evident  that  David  had  been  disgusted, 
as  he  had  meant  her  to  be;  but  he  meant  also  that  the 
result  of  her  disgust  was  to  lead  her,  not  to  the  following 
up  of  a  ridiculous  fancy,  but  to  the  arms  of  Cranley- 
Chance.  To  begin  with,  of  course,  he  must  humour  her; 
which  he  did  by  refusing  to  treat  the  matter  seriously. 
But  David,  a  few  days  later,  returned  again  to  the  attack ; 
and  yet  again,  till  her  father's  patience  and  his  sense  of 
amusement  were  alike  exhausted.  Then,  abandoning  the 
sword  of  ridicule,  he  took  up  the  sledge-hammer  of  au- 
thority, and  brought  it  down  so  heavily  on  her  hopes  as 
entirely  to  crush  them. 

On  a  close  and  sultry  day  David  sat  alone  in  the  draw- 
ing-room. It  was  some  five  weeks  after  Gale's  tea-party, 


144.  PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS 

and  David  and  her  mother  had  returned  the  day  before 
from  a  three  weeks'  stay  at  Folkestone.  Lowther  had 
thought  that  sea  breezes  would  blow  tiresome  fancies  from 
his  daughter's  brain,  and  Mrs.  Lowther  had  hailed  with 
gladness  the  possibility  of  leaving  London.  Her  tender 
heart  shrank  from  the  enforcement  of  Gale's  banishment. 
He  had  shown  himself  unworthy  of  her  liking ;  but  he  had 
been  kind  to  her  during  the  long  months  of  David's  absence, 
and  she  liked  him  still  in  spite  of  his  unworthiness.  To 
wound  him,  as  she  felt  he  must  be  wounded,  was  pain 
to  her,  and  it  was  a  relief  to  have  "absence  from  town" 
as  a  true  and  sufficient  excuse  for  not  seeing  him. 

The  seaside  had  given  a  respite  to  Mrs.  Lowther's  qualms, 
but  it  had  not  altered  David's  ideas.  That  very  morning 
she  had  again  given  them  utterance,  and  was  met  by  the 
sledge-hammer  retort  of  her  father's  final  refusal.  She 
felt  very  unhappy,  very  lonely,  as  she  sat  in  the  darkened 
room — for  the  windows  looked  west  and  the  outside  blinds 
were  down;  she  missed  Gale  more  than  she  knew,  and, 
confronted  with  the  blank  of  his  absence,  she  sought  desper- 
ately to  fill  it.  An  artist's  life,  originally  her  ambition, 
had  now  become  her  refuge,  though  she  was  unaware  of 
the  transmutation,  and  imagined  that  ambition  had  re- 
mained steadfast.  Less  than  ever  could  she  bear  now  to 
abandon  it.  Yet  to  take  her  own  way,  to  rebel,  using  her 
own  little  income  to  procure  her  independence,  meant  a 
defiance  of  duty  and  a  wounding  of  affections  which,  though 
not  completely  absorbing,  were  strong  by  nature  and  bind- 
ing by  habit.  It  seemed  to  David  that  her  father's  un- 
reasonableness was  patent  and  inexcusable;  yet  she  con- 
tinued to  love  him ;  as  much,  perhaps,  because,  as  in  spite 
of  the  dominating  nature  which  allowed  no  disputing  of 
his  will.  To  be  cut  off  from  him  altogether,  to  be  forbidden 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS  145 

the  house  which  was  both  dull  and  dear,  to  be  separated 
completely  from  her  mother's  adoring  and  dependent  affec- 
tion, made  a  prospect  which  she  could  not  face;  while,  on 
the  other  hand,  she  found  submission,  the  abandonment  of 
all  her  hopes  and  plans,  impossible.  She  would  never 
marry;  of  that  she  was  sure,  since  men  were  horrid;  but 
to  be  all  her  life  nothing  more  individual  than  her  father's 
daughter,  sitting  in  the  back  seat  which  he  had  bidden  her 
take,  was  an  alternative  to  defiance  which  she  felt  almost 
incapable  of  accepting. 

She  had  sat  for  an  hour  quite  still,  thinking  and  bat- 
tling; she  was  tired  now  and  wanted  to  stop  thinking, 
to  forget  all  that  was  troubling  her.  She  began  to  long 
for  her  mother's  return  from  Miss  Barker's,  to  long  for  a 
caller,  a  letter,  for  anything  that  would  take  her  mind 
away  from  its  perplexities.  So  that  even  Cranley- Chance, 
coming  in  almost  immediately  after  the  tea-tray,  was  wel- 
come as  a  diversion. 


CHAPTEB  XXIII 

"¥  HEAE  Mrs.  Lowther  is  ont,"  said  the  professor,  "but 

M.  I  thought  I  might  venture,  perhaps,  to  ask  you  for 
a  cup  of  tea." 

"Of  course,"  said  David.  He  bore  her  no  ill-well,  then, 
she  reflected,  for  having  refused  his  offer.  That  was  nice 
of  him. 

"I've  had  a  hard  day's  work,"  Cranley-Chance  added, 
as  if  in  justification  of  his  desire  for  tea. 

"Lucky  person !    I  wish  I  had." 

The  professor  smiled.    "The  charm  of  the  unknown  ?" 

"I  suppose  you  think  women  are  incapable  of  doing 
anything  but  amuse  themselves." 

"I'm  ready  to  be  corrected — and  instructed." 

"Instruction  is  not  my  forte,  I'm  afraid.  What  have 
you  been  working  at  ?" 

"My  book.    I  think  I  told  you  I  was  writing  another." 

"Yes,  of  course."  The  telling  her  about  this  book 
had  been  one  of  the  things  that  had  flattered  and  pleased 
David  most.  She  had  forgotten  all  about  it  during  the 
last  few  weeks,  but  now  her  interest  revived.  She  re- 
membered that  the  professor  considered  her  intelligent, 
and  in  her  crushed  and  baffled  mood  it  was  comforting  to 
be  with  a  person  who  thought  her  clever.  "How  is  it  get- 
ting on?"  she  asked. 

"Pretty  well."    Chance's  smile  said  "splendidly." 

"I  wish  I'd  been  born  a  man,"  said  David. 

The  remark  sounded  irrelevant,  but  so  intent  was 

146 


PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS  147 

Cranley-Chance  on  trying  to  please  this  inconsequent  girl 
that  he  abandoned  his  book  without  a  qualm.  "May  I 
ask  why  ?" 

"I  should  have  thought  the  reason  was  obvious.  Be- 
cause men  can  always  do  as  they  like." 

"You  think  so  ?    I  know  one  who  can't,  at  any  rate." 

"I  mean,"  said  David,  quick  to  perceive  his  drift,  "that 
if  they  can't  do  one  thing,  they  can  do  another.  A  man 
can  always  work." 

"Can't  a  woman?" 

"Not  unless  she's  an  orphan  or  a  charwoman." 

"Your  mother's  neither,  and  she  seems  to  me  never  to 

stop  working  all  day.  I  have  sometimes  wondered " 

"whether  she  works  all  night,"  Chance  had  been  going  to 
say,  but  stopped  himself. 

"Knitting!  That's  not  my  idea  of  work;  that  is  em- 
ployment." 

"What  is  your  idea  of  work?" 

"Something  that's  of  use  to  the  world." 

"The  world  wants  stockings,  you  know." 

"Machinery  makes  stockings."  David's  glance  was  a 
reproof  to  his  flippancy.  "What  I  mean  is  to  make  great 
discoveries,  write  great  books,  paint  great  pictures." 

"One  can  do  a  good  deal  in  that  way,  you  know,  without 
it  turning  out  great." 

"If  you're  sufficiently  in  earnest,  you  must  do  something 
good.  I  am." 

The  youthful  self-confidence  of  the  remark,  the  implied 
capacity,  appealed  to  Cranley-Chance's  sense  of  humour; 
but  he  was  careful  not  to  let  his  amusement  appear. 

"Do  you  still  want  to  be  an  artist  ?"  he  asked  gravely. 

"Of  course.  Do  you  suppose  one  changes  from  week 
to  week  ?  I  want  it  more  than  ever." 


148  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

"It  seems  a  pity  not  to  follow  your  bent."  He  looked 
at  David  across  the  table.  "Such  a  pity !" 

She  was  craving  for  sympathy,  craving  too  for  an  outlet 
for  her  sense  of  injury  and  injustice,  of  baffled  will  and 
energy. 

"You  think  so?"  she  said  eagerly.  "You  agree  with 
me?" 

"Most  certainly." 

"Oh!"  David  clasped  her  hands  beneath  the  tea-table. 
"Then  I  wish  you'd  speak  to  father." 

Lowther,  as  it  happened,  had  dropped  in  to  lunch  with 
the  professor  that  very  day,  and  the  two  had  discussed 
David,  her  desires  and  the  situation  generally. 

"If  I  let  her  go  off  wild-goose  chasing  in  studios,"  the 
doctor  had  said,  "she'll  never  tame  down."  His  advice  to 
Chance  had  been  to  wait,  to  leave  her  alone  for  a  time,  and 
then  recommence  his  courtship.  "If  she  gets  a  bit  moped, 
she'll  be  all  the  more  likely  to  listen  to  you,"  he  said. 

But  Chance,  listening  to  the  doctor's  account  of  his 
interview  with  his  daughter,  thought  he  saw  a  better  way 
than  waiting.  He  said  nothing,  but  he  had  come  this 
afternoon  to  see  if  his  idea  had  value.  Now,  in  answer  to 
David's  pleading,  he  shook  his  head. 

"You  know  what  your  father  is!  If  you  can't  move 
him,  I'm  afraid  I  couldn't.  Does  he  absolutely  discourage 
you,  then  ?" 

"Discourage!  He  forbids  me  to  think  of  anything  of 
the  kind." 

"Poor  David !"  Cranley-Chance  had  never  called  her 
anything  but  Miss  Lowther,  but  his  voice  was  so  soft  and 
so  kind  that  she  did  not  notice  the  use  of  her  Christian 
name.  He  waited  a  moment,  and  then  said,  "I'm  sure 
lie's  mistaken." 


PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS  149 

"Not  to  let  me  be  an  artist?" 

How  charming  she  looked  with  her  flushed  cheeks  and 
her  eyes  alight  with  eagerness! 

"Yes,"  said  Chance. 

"You  think  so  ?    I'm  so  glad." 

"Perhaps  you  haven't  talked  to  him  as  you've  talked  to 
me — about  art,  I  mean." 

"No,  I  haven't.  I  couldn't,  of  course.  Father  hates  art 
and  artists,  you  know." 

"And  /  care  so  much  for  both." 

"I  know.  I  remember  seeing  your  collection,  and  ad- 
miring it.  Though  I  don't  think,"  added  David,  with  the 
air  of  an  accomplished  connoisseur,  "that  I  care  for  the 
Dutch  school  as  much  as  for  the  early  Italian." 

"My  taste  is  entirely  untrained.  If  I'd  had  more  sym- 
pathetic companionship  in  those  days,  I  might  have  cul- 
tivated it." 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  to  decry  the  Dutch  school,  and  I 
don't  mean  to  set  up  as  a  critic.  Only,  if  you  compare  it 

with  the  early  Italian,  the  significance "     She  was 

beginning  to  enjoy  herself,  and  she  stopped  only  because 
her  ideas  about  art  were  so  unformulated  that  she  did  not 
quite  know  what  she  wanted  to  say. 

Cranley-Chance,  however,  came  to  the  rescue.  "The 
significance,"  said  he,  "makes  all  the  difference." 

He  was  really  very  understanding,  and  it  was  pleasant 
to  talk  to  him  again,  more  especially  when,  in  her  home, 
she  was  starved  of  conversation  of  the  kind. 

"How  did  you  propose  to  start  in  your  career  ?"  he  asked 
presently. 

"I  have  started.  I  studied  hard  at  Lapelliere.  And 
now" — her  voice  slightly  faltered — "it's  all  no  use." 

"Don't  say  that.     Nothing  is  ever  lost,"  said  Chance 


150  PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

profoundly.  "You  never  know  when  your  opportunity 
may  come.  But  if  you  could  have  your  way,  how  would 
you — not  start,  but  go  on  ?" 

The  question  cut  away  the  last  barrier  from  David's 
reserve.  Her  dreams  rushed  to  her  lips;  the  lessons  from 
the  eminent  artists,  the  studio  all  her  own,  the  Bohemian 
life,  the  successful  achievement;  the  last  only  hinted  at. 

Cranley-Chance  listened  with  his  eyes  upon  her  face; 
she  was  very  sweet  and  fresh,  very  ingenuous  and  delight- 
ful; and  by  and  by,  in  a  home  and  with  interests  of  her 
own,  these  girlish  dreams  would  die.  But  to  begin  with, 
she  should  have  such  toys  as  she  chose  to  play  with;  she 
would  tire  of  them  in  time,  and  find  her  husband's  name 
and  fame  sufficient  to  satisfy  her  ambition — if  she  would 
let  him  be  her  husband !  He  advanced  warily.  He  longed 
to  take  her  in  his  arms,  but  all  he  said  was,  "I  wish  it 
might  be.  I  wish  you  could  have  your  chance." 

"And  you  can't  help  me?    You  think  father " 

He  shook  his  head.  "No,  he  wouldn't  listen  to  me; 
there's  no  chance  that  way." 

"You  wouldn't  advise  me  to  defy  him?  And  that'8 
the  only  alternative." 

"Not  the  only  one.  There's  another  way,  a  sure  one — 
if  you'd  take  it." 

David  looked  at  him.  "Oh,  no,  I  couldn't,"  she  said 
quickly. 

But  Cranley-Chance  meant  to  go  on.  "If  you  were  my 
wife,"  he  said,  "you  should  have  a  studio  of  your  own  and 
study  under  any  artists  you  chose.  The  studio  should  be 
in  the  house;  I  would  have  one  built  on,  or  outside  it,  in 
an  artists'  quarter.  You  should  lead  your  own  life,  choose 
your  own  friends,  follow  your  own  career,  without  any  in- 
terference from  me,  except  to  help  you." 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  151 

She  couldn't,  no,  ene  couldn't;  she  didn't  like  him 
enough — though  she  liked  him;  and  he  was  sympathetic, 
understood  her.  But — a  studio  of  her  own — lead  her  own 
life — follow  her  career!  It  would  hardly  be  like  being 
married  at  all.  She  wasn't  the  least  in  love  with  him — 
never  could  be.  But  love !  What  did  love  matter  ?  She 
had  abjured  it.  He  was  kind,  and — and  clean.  To  her 
innocence  the  fact  of  the  professor's  having  remained  un- 
married till  he  was  forty-six  proved  that  he  was  superior 
to  the  failings  of  Gale  and  his  kind. 

She  hesitated,  taking  a  mental  view  of  herself  as  David 
Lowther,  the  well-known  specialist's  daughter  who  did 
nothing ;  and  again  as — as  Mrs.  Cranley-Chance,  the  artist, 
famous,  gifted,  painting  pictures  of  renown.  It  all  went 

through  her  mind  in  flashes.  She  could  not ;  but  if  she 

could!  He  would  not  interfere  with  her,  he  said;  she 
should  do  as  she  liked,  consort  with  whom  she  liked.  She 
wondered 

Cranley-Chance  waited,  noting  her  hesitation,  patient 
and  hopeful;  waited,  but  not  too  long.  Her  dreams  were 
repeated — but  in  his  words:  her  career  was  sketched  in 
brilliant  colours — of  his  painting. 

She  thought  of  Gale  (not  wanting  then  to  think  of  him), 
and  hated  him;  she  thought  of  her  daily  life  at  home, 
and  shrank  from  the  monotony  of  it.  There  was  but 
one  way  to  freedom  and  to  art,  and  Chance  tempted  her 
towards  it  with  admirable  tact. 

In  the  end  she  took  that  way;  on  condition  that  she 
should  address  Chance  as  Cranley  and  never  be  expected  to 
call  him  Sampson. 

Lowther,  when  he  heard  the  news,  was  jubilant.  "I 
told  you  I  knew  how  to  manage  her,"  he  said. 

His  approval  was  expressed  in  an  extensive  trousseau 


152  PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

and  in  the  settlement  on  his  daughter  of  five  thousand 
pounds. 

David,  herself,  was  hardly  happy,  yet  not  unhappy;  she 
was  vehemently  active.  There  was  so  much  to  do ;  for  there 
was  nothing  to  wait  for,  said  Cranley-Chance ;  nothing  in 
the  world,  echoed  the  doctor;  and  David  was  absorbed  in 
studio-hunting.  She  decided  on  one  on  Campden  Hill.  It 
was  far  enough  away  from  her  own  neighbourhood  to  satisfy 
her  desire  for  remoteness,  yet  easily  accessible  from  the 
house  in  Manchester  Square  which  was  to  be  her  home. 

Cranley-Chance,  whose  love  gave  him  insight,  and  whose 
insight  endowed  him  with  discretion,  humoured  her  to  the 
top  of  her  bent.  To  Lowther,  who  remonstrated  with  him 
for  encouraging  David's  vagaries,  he  said,  "I  have  taken 
the  studio  by  the  quarter  only" ;  and  Lowther  understood 
that  the  studio  was  to  be  a  temporary  toy,  and  remonstrated 
no  more. 

Mrs.  Lowther  was  silently  miserable.  Once,  when  the 
engagement  was  but  a  few  hours  old,  she  had  gone  to 
David's  room  and  pleaded  with  her  daughter  to  break  it. 
David  kept  in  her  memory  the  picture  of  her  mother  in 
her  shabby  dressing-gown,  with  quivering  hands,  a  face 
strangely  unlike  the  face  that  bent  over  her  knitting,  and 
a  voice  that  faltered.  But  Mrs.  Lowther's  arguments 
carried  no  conviction  to  her  daughter's  ears.  David  soothed 
her  mother,  but  did  not  heed  her;  she  found  in  Bertha's 
words  no  reason  for  turning  back  from  the  course  on  which 
she  had  started. 

Bertha's  thoughts  went  often  to  Gale  during  the  short 
period  of  David's  engagement;  with  all  his  faults,  she 
would  have  preferred  him  to  Cranley-Chance.  She  had 
her  own  code  of  morality — not  a  lax  one;  and  the  younger 


PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS  153 

man  had  transgressed,  as  she  believed,  one  of  its  laws ;  but 
the  older  had  violated  the  principles  on  which  it  was  based. 

In  the  church,  on  David's  wedding  day,  holding  back 
tears  which  threatened  to  fall  on  her  purple  silk  dress, 
Mrs.  Lowther  happened  to  glance  upwards  and  saw  Gale 
sitting  in  a  corner  of  the  gallery.  Her  heart  went  out 
to  him;- they  were  together  in  suffering. 

Gale,  catching  her  upward  glance,  drew  back.  He  was 
passionately  miserable;  but  young  enough,  fresh  enough, 
innocent  enough,  to  be  capable  of  appreciating  what  has 
been  termed  the  luxury  of  woe.  His  dream  was  dead,  but 
there  was  a  romantic,  exquisite  torment  in  watching  its 
entombment;  in  draining  his  cup  of  suffering  to  its  last 
and  bitterest  dregs.  He  had  put  on  his  shabbiest  clothes; 
there  was  a  sort  of  grim  comfort  in  the  congruity  of  'Melia's 
unaided  blacking  of  his  boots;  his  hair  stood  out,  defiant 
of  restraint,  a  mass  of  tawny  untidiness. 


JOHN  CAMEEON  glanced  at  the  clock.    "The  laddie's 
late,"  he  said  half  aloud. 

As  he  spoke  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  Sidney 
Gale  came  in.  Eight  years  had  taken  away  the  colt-like 
aspect  of  the  medical  student  and  given  to  his  bearing 
the  equilibrium  of  the  man  steadied  down  to  his  calling. 
That  Gale  had  a  definite  calling  was  apparent ;  the  nature 
of  it  was  less  patent.  He  had  acquired  neither  the  suavity 
of  the  physician  nor  the  dogmatic  inscrutability  of  the 
surgeon;  obviously  a  busy  man,  his  individuality  was  too 
strong  to  be  submerged  in  the  characteristics  of  a  type. 

"I  was  afraid  I  was  late,"  he  said. 

"Later  than  I  expected  you." 

"Later  than  I  intended  to  be,  but  I  had  a  case  I  couldn't 
leave." 

"A  bad  one?" 

"No ;  it'll  go  all  right,  I  think,  now  that  I've  got  a  free 
hand.  I've  had  a  tussle.  They  wanted  a  second  opinion, 
and  nobody  would  do  but  Moreton  Shand." 

"Ah!" 

"We  didn't  agree." 

"I'm  not  surprised." 

"You're  thinking  of  my  hospital  days." 

"No,  I  should  date  the  disagreement  between  you  further 
back  than  that.  I  should  call  it  ante-natal." 

Gale  laughed.    "A  matter  of  aeons  ?" 

154 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS  155 

Cameron  laughed  too.  "We'll  call  it  innate.  Well,  and 
you  didn't  agree  ?" 

Gale  shook  his  head.  "He  wanted  to  operate.  I — didn't." 

"Just  so.    And  you  won  ?" 

"In  the  end.  The  father  of  the  girl  wanted  to  kick  me 
out;  but  his  wife  believes  in  me,  and  kicked  against  the 
kicking." 

"What  was  it — is  it,  I  mean  ?" 

"Congestion  of  the  ovary,  wtih  slight  intestinal  dis- 
turbance. Shand  diagnosed  it  appendicitis — of  course." 

"A  stomach-ache  is  appendicitis  now,  eh?" 

"It  almost  comes  to  that.  And  if  the  appendix  is  even 
under  suspicion,  poor  thing,  out  it  comes.  Lord,  how  the 
mortality  in  intestinal  operations  has  gone  up  since  Treves 
— with  the  most  merciful  intentions — invented  his  opera- 
tion !" 

"Treves'  operation  is  not  the  only  one  on  the  increase." 

"No,"  said  Gale  gloomily,  "it's  in  everything." 

"If  you  exercise  your  logic,  you'll  see  why." 

"Oh,  come,  that's  taboo !" 

"Logic?    I  think  it  is." 

"No,  Cameron's  entire."  It  was  the  name  Gale  had  given 
to  the  older  man's  opinions  and  philosophy. 

Cameron  laughed  quietly.  "You  can't  taboo  a  trend,  my 
boy." 

"No,  you  must  fight  it." 

"It's  waste  of  time  to  fight  your  own  convictions." 

"Wasn't  thinking  of  my  convictions.  I  was  thinking  of 
the  operation  craze." 

"It's  not  much  good  fighting  that;  it's  only  a  branch. 
You  must  go  to  the  root.  And  your  trend,"  Cameron 
added,  "is  rootwards." 

"It  may  be."    Gale  stretched  himself  and  yawned  slight- 


156  PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS 

ly.  "It  may  be.  Have  you  known  Mrs.  Home  long?"  he 
asked. 

"No ;  but  I  have  known  her  great  friend,  Mrs.  West,  for 
some  years ;  and  I  knew  Judith  Home's  mother — slightly." 
Cameron  took  a  long  whiff  at  his  pipe,  and  let  the  smoke 
out  slowly.  "She  was  a  kind  of  connection  of  my  wife's." 

"I  never  knew "  began  Gale,  and  stopped. 

"That  I  had  been  married?  Yes.  It  was  a  good  long 
time  ago — in  Edinburgh,  when  I  was  quite  a  young  man — 
younger  than  you  are  now,  Sidney." 

"I  don't  consider  myself  young  at  all,"  said  Gale.  His 
hair  was  still  much  thicker  than  that  of  the  ordinary  man, 
especially  the  ordinary  professional  man,  and  it  still  re- 
tained its  tendency  to  stand  out  from  his  head.  Cameron, 
looking  at  him  and  at  his  clear,  alert  eyes,  smiled.  Pres- 
ently he  went  on  speaking. 

"In  those  days,"  he  said,  "my  views  were  the  general 
views;  vivisection  was  little  practised,  little  countenanced. 
Men,  my  contemporaries,  who  are  not  only  vivisectionists, 
but  vivisectors  now,  wrote  against  it  then.  Bradshaw  was 
one  of  them ;  Lowther  was  another.  Then  came  the  change. 
It  was  thought  that  vivisection  opened  up  a  field  of  bound- 
less discovery,  boundless  knowledge.  The  end  had  a  glam- 
our that  glorified  the  means;  and  selfishness  in  the  guise 
of  sentiment  extolled  those  means;  it  was  for  the  good  of 
humanity."  Cameron  laid  down  his  pipe.  "Poor  hu- 
manity !" 

"It  is  for  the  good  of  humanity." 

"Ay?  Even  if  it  could  help  the  bodies,  diseased  with 
self-indulgence,  or  feeble  from  starvation  and  foul  air;  if 
sera  and  vaccines  could  restore  what  want  and  misery  and 
vice  had  destroyed;  even,  if  it  would  do  all  that — and  it 
can't,  lad,  it  can't — it  wouldn't  be  worth  while.  It's  better 


PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS  157 

for  men  to  be  pitiful  than  even  to  be  free  from  pain,  better 
to  be  merciful  than  immune  from  disease.  It  wouldn't 
profit  humanity,  in  the  long  run,  to  gain  the  whole  world, 
if  it  lost  its  own  soul." 

"You  take  a — the  view  of  a  transcendentalist,"  said 
Gale. 

"I  take  the  only  view  possible  to  a  man  who  thinks  and 
is  not  a  materialist.  I  don't  blame  a  materialist  for  taking 
another  one,  it's  only  logical.  Cruelty  is  a  sin  of  the  spirit, 
and  for  him  cannot,  as  sin,  exist.  It's  just  a  means,  as 
much  as  any  other  means,  to  attain  his  end." 

"And  do  you  mean  to  say  that  a  vivisector  is  always 
and  necessarily  cruel  ?" 

"I  mean  to  say  that  pity  is  a  thing  that  can't  be  laid 
down  and  taken  up  again  like  a  hat  a  man  wears  on  his 
head ;  that  you  can't  continually  lose  it  within  the  walls  of 
a  laboratory  and  find  it  again  as  soon  as  you  get  outside." 

"I  know  men,  all  the  same " 

"Yes,  yes,  so  do  I — or  did  know  them;  men  with  an 
excellent  bedside  manner,  men  with  a  reputation  for  gen- 
tleness. Yet  it  dulls  their  humanity.  Such  men — honour- 
able men,  mind  you,  according  to  their  own  standard,  and 
honourable,  too,  in  many  ways,  according  to  mine — grow 
callous  in  the  matter  of  inflicting  pain.  If  there's  a  ghost 
of  an  excuse  for  operating  on  a  poorer  patient,  and  some- 
times even  on  a  richer  one " 

"No,  no,  no,"  said  Gale,  "that's  scandalous." 

"What  do  you  know  of  Moreton  Shand?  and  do  you 
know  no  others  like  him?  And  look  here:  I  knew  a 
surgeon — a  great  surgeon — and  to  show  he  had  an  open 
mind  as  to  the  treatment  of  tumours  by  electricity,  he 
had  an  installation  put  up  in  his  own  consulting  rooms. 
But  when  one  of  his  patients  chose  to  have  electrical  treat- 


158  PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

ment  instead  of  being  operated  upon,  he  was  supremely 
disgusted ;  because,  as  he  himself  told  me,  she  was  well  able 
to  pay  for  the  operation."1 

Gale  burst  into  a  laugh.  "I  should  say  that  patient 
didn't  get  much  result  from  the  electrical  treatment,"  he 
said. 

"When  pity  dies  and  kindliness,  there's  not  much  chance 
for  honour.  And  you  may  say  what  you  like,  laddie,  but 
the  spirit  of  the  laboratory  is  spreading  through  the  pro- 
fession. I  often  wish  the  humane  men,  the  really  humane — 
and  there  are  plenty  of  them — could  have  first-hand  knowl- 
edge of  what  goes  on  in  some  of  these  places." 

"Is  your  knowledge" — Gale  hesitated — "first-hand  ?" 

"Ay."  Cameron  made  one  of  his  long  pauses,  but  Gale 
knew  him  well  now,  and  waited. 

"In  my  young  days,"  he  said  by  and  by,  "I  was  an  as- 
sistant for  a  time  in  the  laboratory  of  an  experimental 
physiologist.  For  a  time;  for  I  couldn't  stand  it.  You 
either  get  used  to  it,  get  not  to  care,  or  you  can't  stand  it 
at  all.  I  was  one  of  those  who  can't  stand  it.  I  came 
out  of  it,  and  then — I'd  married  what  folks  would  call 
foolishly  young,  and  I  had  a  wife  and  bairn.  I  had  some- 
thing of  my  own,  but  not  enough  to  be  idle  on.  It  was 
hard  to  get  on  in  Edinburgh  in  those*  days  if  you  didn't 
do  what  they  called  moving  with  the  times.  I  didn't  risk 
it.  I  became  an  Army  surgeon,  and  we  went  out  to  India ; 
not  to  a  good  station.  The  climate  was — well,  deadly,  and 
did  its  deadly  work.  I  came  back  alone."  Cameron  took 
up  the  pipe  he  had  laid  down.  "Judith  Home  reminds  me 
a  little  of  my  wife." 

Gale  showed  his  sympathy  in  the  Englishman's  usual 
way;  that  is  to  say,  he  was  silent. 

*App,  4. 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  159 

"I  found  the  vivisection  craze  in  full  force/'  Cameron 
went  on.  "I  remembered  the  laboratory,  and  I  knew  that 
an  anti  had  a  poor  chance.  I'd  found  in  India  other  lines 
of  research  than  the  physiological;  and  when  I  left  the 
Army,  I  just  settled  here  in  London  and  followed  them 
up." 

"Gave  up  the  profession  altogether  ?" 

"As  far  as  a  profession,  yes.  I've  just  kept  my  hand 
in  by  looking  after  a  few  poor  bodies  who  can't  afford 
fees." 

"You  know,  of  course,  that  Mrs.  Home  is  a  rabid  A.-V.  ?" 

Cameron  nodded.  "Ay,  and  a  militant  one.  By  the 
way,  where  did  you  meet  her  ?" 

"At  the  Lowthers' — before  Lowther  discovered  her  iden- 
tity." 

"You  and  Lowther  are  quite  chummy  now." 

Gale  shook  his  head  and  laughed.  "Hardly  that.  Since 
I  got  my  head  above  water,  he  gives  me  his  countenance." 

"And  will,  so  long  as  you  swim  with  the  stream.  Do 
you  like  him?" 

Gale  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "He's  clever,  and  I  like 
his  brains.  Besides,  I'm  sorry  for  his  wife." 

"Why?" 

Again  the  shoulders  went  up.  "I  don't  know — except 
that  she's  always  sitting  still  and  always  looks  as  if  she 
were  sat  upon." 

"Do  you  know  how  Mrs.  Cranley-Chance  is?" 

"Well,  I  believe." 

"The  child's  a  great  trouble  to  her." 

"Must  be." 

"You  don't  go  there?" 

"No.  Cranley-Chance  has  never  cottoned  to  me.  Well, 
good-night." 


160  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

"Good-night,  laddie."  Cameron's  eyes  were  full  of  af- 
fection. 

When  Gale  had  gone  he  went  back  to  his  chair  with  a 
troubled  look  on  his  face.  "I  wonder!"  he  said  once  in 
the  half-audible  tone  in  which  he  sometimes  spoke  when 
he  was  alone.  Presently  he  closed  his  eyes,  and,  his  body 
upright,  his  hands  resting  on  his  knees,  sat  motionless. 
When  he  opened  his  eyes  again,  his  face  was  set  in  a  mould 
of  peace. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

WHEN  Percy  Burdon  discovered,  as  he  did  the  first 
time  he  and  Gale  met  after  Gale's  unfortunate 
tea-party,  the  true  explanation  of  its  climax,  he  was  filled 
with  abject  contrition.  He  went  first  to  Lowther,  who 
laughed;  then  to  Mrs.  Lowther,  who  cried.  To  David  he 
could  not  go,  as  she  was  on  her  wedding  trip  at  the  time; 
and  it  was  Mrs.  Lowther  who  told  her  daughter  of  the 
mistake  that  had  been  made. 

"You  had  better  ask  him  to  come  and  see  you  again," 
was  all  David  said.  "I  can't,  because  Cranley  doesn't  like 
him." 

"Why  doesn't  he  like  him?" 

"I  suppose  because  he  credits  him  with  all  the  faults 
and  failings  that  make  people  unlikable." 

"Oh,  but,  David,  now  that  he  is  cleared " 

"The  clearing  would  not  make  any  difference  with 
Cranley."  She  did  not  add,  "He  is  jealous" ;  but  she  knew 
in  her  heart  the  reason  for  her  husband's  dislike  of  Gale, 
and  recognised,  with  a  slight  contempt,  that  she  must  not 
seek  to  renew  even  her  acquaintanceship  with  the  young 
man. 

Bertha,  on  David's  advice,  entered  into  no  sort  of  ex- 
planation with  Gale;  she  simply  asked  him  to  tea,  and, 
when  he  came,  said  she  was  sorry  that  it  was  so  long  since 
she  had  seen  him.  He  did  not  know  till  many  years  after 
why,  on  two  consecutive  Sundays,  Mrs.  Lowther  had  been 
"not  at  home." 

161 


162  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

After  the  second  abortive  visit,  David's  engagement  had 
been  announced,  and  he  had  not  again  sought  admission  to 
the  house  in  Harley  Street. 

He  had  sent  Miss  Lowther  a  wedding  present — four 
silver  salt-cellars  in  a  case  lined  with  blue  velvet ;  and  then 
had  gone  about  his  work  in  a  dazed,  determined  way,  eating 
his  heart  out  in  his  acute  disappointment. 

The  pain  was  keen,  but  there  was  no  bitterness  in  it. 
It  was  humiliating  to  think  that  her  liking  for  him  had 
been  dominated  all  the  time  by  love  for  Chance;  for  she 
had  liked  him;  he  had  even  hoped — that  afternoon  on 

the  balcony,  especially But  she  had  not  treated  him 

badly,  had  not  flirted,  as  a  lighter  woman  might  have 
done.  He  did  not  blame  her;  having  placed  her  high  in 
his  esteem,  he  saw  no  cause,  just  because  she  could  not 
care  for  him,  to  give  her  a  lower  place.  So  he  kept  his 
high  thought  of  her,  and  a  reverent  adoration,  cherished 
in  the  realm  of  romance  and  forbidden  the  plane  of  sense. 
On  that  plane,  in  the  years  that  followed  David's  marriage, 
it  could  not  be  said  that  he  lived  spotlessly;  but,  if  he 
sinned  in  the  flesh,  in  his  imagination  the  woman  he  had 
loved  reigned  undefiled. 

He  and  David  met  from  time  to  time;  at  her  father's 
house;  later  on,  as  Gale's  practice  grew,  and  his  name  be- 
came a  known  one,  at  the  houses  of  common  friends.  Her 
manner  to  him  was  always  the  same ;  unembarrassed,  gently 
gay.  He  thought  she  seemed  happy,  and  was  glad ;  it  was 
certain  that  as  her  womanhood  matured  her  beauty  gained. 

Cranley-Chance's  prediction  as  to  David's  studio  had  been 
fulfilled,  but  not  in  the  way  predicted  by  Cranley-Chance. 
For  David  had  not  tired  of  painting,  of  studying,  of  giving 
tea-parties  in  that  domain  at  Campden  Hill  which  was  all 
her  own. 


PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS  163 

After  the  first  six  months,  it  was,  in  very  fact,  her  own. 
At  first  her  husband  had  paid  the  rent;  it  was  the  toy 
wherewith  he  had  lured  her  to  his  home;  but  when  David 
did  not  tire  of  the  toy,  when  she  made  the  game  of  paint- 
ing the  chief  occupation  of  her  life,  Chance  showed  a 
tentative  unwillingness  to  provide  her  with  the  means  of 
playing  it. 

David  was  quick  of  perception;  in  the  bud  of  demur  she 
saw  the  blossom  of  denial,  and  with  the  straightforward 
boldness  which  was  tactically  characteristic  of  her,  at  once 
opposed  and  foiled  her  husband's  manoeuvres.  Her  private 
purse,  she  said,  the  income  derived  from  her  aunt's  legacy 
and  her  marriage  settlement,  was  quite  sufficient  to  cover 
the  rent  of  the  studio  as  well  as  her  personal  expenses,  and 
she  could  not  allow  Cranley  to  continue  to  pay  it. 

Cranley  perceived  his  mistake;  there  should  have  been 
no  marriage  settlement;  his  bird  had  too  wide  a  cage. 
But  he  was  prudent,  since  his  desire  was  rather  to  tame 
the  bird  than  to  clip  its  wings;  and  he  solaced  himself 
with  the  hope  that  her  dress  and  amusements  (she  dressed 
charmingly  and  amused  herself  considerably)  would  absorb 
so  large  a  proportion  of  her  time  and  money,  that  the 
studio  would  go  to  the  wall. 

But  David  liked  the  studio,  liked  the  idea  of  it  even 
better  than  the  studio  itself.  She  assembled  within  its 
walls  those  friends  of  old  standing  or  recent  acquisition 
who,  instinct  told  her,  would  not  be  welcome  at  Manchester 
Square  (John  Cameron  was  amongst  them;  Sidney  Gale 
was  not) ;  and  lived  to  a  certain  extent  the  life  she  had 
dreamed  of.  Perhaps  the  celebrities  and  oddities  that  she 
gathered  about  her  hardly  thought  her  a  great  artist;  not 
even,  it  may  be,  potentially  great;  but  they  all  agreed  that 


164«  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

she  was  a  charming  woman;  and  David's  parties  were  a 
success. 

Sometimes  her  husband  was  a  guest ;  but  always  a  guest ; 
the  chief  guest,  and  treated  with  honour,  but  never  ap- 
proaching to  the  position  of  host ;  and  it  was  perhaps  well 
for  the  popularity  of  David's  studio  that  Cranley- Chance 
was  not  often  in  it.  A  busy  man,  occupied  all  day  either  in 
his  laboratory  or  in  the  writing  of  his  books,  he  could  not 
declare  himself  aggrieved  if  David  also  was  all  day  occu- 
pied and  absent.  She  could  not  be  said  to  neglect  her  house- 
keeping, and  in  the  evening  she  was  always  ready  to  sit 
with  him  at  home  or  go  with  him  whithersoever  he  wanted 
to  take  her.  In  scientific  circles  Cranley-Chance's  wife 
was  a  well-known  and  popular  figure;  and  her  popularity 
spread  through  the  wider  and  more  fashionable  world  to 
which  the  professor's  achievements  gave  him  access. 

Chance  was  proud  of  her,  and,  in  that  he  possessed  her, 
happy;  yet  in  his  cup  of  happiness  there  was  always  the 
poisoned  drop.  She  was  his,  and  in  all  that  she  did,  save 
in  that  matter  of  the  studio,  he  approved  her;  but — just 
because  he  loved  her — he  felt  she  was  more  loyal  than 
loving.  The  bird  he  had  snared  so  deftly  was  secure  in 
its  cage,  and  fluttered  not  at  all  against  the  bars;  but  he 
was  haunted  by  the  idea  that  Sidney  Gale  had,  so  to  speak, 
once  put  salt  upon  its  tail,  and  claimed  from  his  captive  a 
secret  but  abiding  allegiance. 

Yet  David  thought  very  little  of  Sidney  Gale.  She  was 
glad  when  she  met  him,  for,  the  slur  wiped  from  his  repu- 
tation, her  liking  for  him  had  revived.  Her  interest  had 
never  died,  and  increased  as  the  years  strengthened  his 
personality,  brought  him  experience  and  skill,  set  him  on 
the  ladder  of  renown.  She  was  glad  to  meet  him,  but  she 
never  talked  to  him  much;  she  was  aware  of  the  tail  and 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  165 

salt  myth  in  her  husband's  mind;  she  could  not  dispel  it, 
but  would  not  torment  him  by  giving  it  countenance. 
For  David's  somewhat  restrained  up-bringing,  and  the  un- 
uttered  philosophy  of  her  mother's  daily  life,  had  given 
her  a  very  simple  code.  Marriage  was  sacred  to  her,  a 
definite  sphere,  denned  by  duty,  pervaded,  on  the  woman's 
side  at  least,  by  courtesy;  she  would  have  thought  it  as 
unfitting  to  excite  her  husband's  jealousy  as  to  flirt  for 
her  own  amusement. 

After  two  years  there  came  an  interruption  to  her  paint- 
ing and  her  parties  in  the  shape  of  a  baby  son.  The  pro- 
fessor hoped  that  he  would  break  the  studio  spell ;  but  the 
child  lived  only  a  few  days,  and  Campden  Hill  became  more 
of  a  refuge  than  ever. 

Nevertheless,  Campden  Hill  was  doomed. 

Fifteen  months  later  came  another  baby,  a  girl,  beauti- 
fully strong  and  healthy,  and  in  the  first  joyful  months  of 
motherhood  David's  painting  went  to  the  wall.  She  kept 
on  the  studio,  for  the  child  and  her  art  could  exist,  she 
declared,  side  by  side;  and  by  and  by,  as  Vi  grew  out  of 
babyhood,  the  painting  and  the  parties  began  again.  But 
the  parties  now  were  in  excess  of  the  painting. 

Then,  in  David's  sky,  a  cloud  formed,  small  at  first  and 
thin  as  vapour,  but  growing  in  size  and  density  till  it 
covered  her  eyes  and  changed  the  focus  of  her  gaze  on  life. 

The  nurse,  in  pure  carelessness,  or  by  inevitable  accident, 
had  let  the  child  fall  in  lifting  it  from  its  perambulator; 
and  though  at  first  Vi  showed  no  sign  of  any  but  passing 
injuries,  the  course  of  the  years  proved  that  the  fall  had 
left  an  abiding  hurt.  David  hardly  knew  when  she  began 
to  notice  the  lack  of  power  in  the  child's  legs,  the  drag 
and  the  feebleness,  and  at  first  she  was  persuaded  that  they 
arose  only  from  too  rapid  growth.  Vi's  father  and  grand- 


166  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

father,  examining  her  in  David's  absence,  shook  their  heads 
as  they  noted  the  loss  of  the  knee  reflexes,  and  were  pre- 
pared for  the  decline  of  functional  control,  the  muscular 
atrophy  that  increased  and  persisted;  till  at  last  it  was  no 
longer  possible  for  David  to  hide  from  herself  the  fact  that 
Vi  was  a  cripple,  suffering  and  helpless. 

After  that  there  was  no  more  thought  of  studio  parties 
or  artistic  fame  in  David's  mind.  For  the  case  was  hope- 
less, said  Lowther,  said  Moreton  Shand,  said  Bell  and 
Barkworth  and  Stoughton-Lee ;  said  all  the  leading  men. 
It  was  myelites,  and  recovery  was  impossible.  David  knew 
no  emotion  save  passionate  pity,  no  ambition  save  to  soothe 
the  child's  suffering. 

In  her  agony  she  turned  to  her  husband.  "Can  you  do 
nothing — with  all  your  cleverness  and  discoveries,  noth- 
ing?" 

He  shook  his  head.  "Not  immediately;  but  I  never 
know.  Each  time  I  enter  my  laboratory  there  is  always 
the  chance  of  new  knowledge,  the  chance  of  finding  out 
the  way  to  help.  I  need  hardly  tell  you  that  all  that  can 
be  done  to  save  the  child  shall  be  done;  every  line  of 
investigation  that  promises  the  slightest  hope  followed  to 
the  very  end." 

She  thought  of  nothing  but  Vi;  the  whole  world  was 
Vi;  the  pain,  the  fear,  the  anguish  of  all  creation  was  as 
nothing  compared  with  the  suffering  of  Vi.  She  was 
drawn  nearer  to  her  husband  than  she  had  ever  thought 
to  be;  and  Cranley-Chance,  grieving  for  his  child,  yet 
blessed  the  child,  and  blessed  the  work  which,  together 
with  the  child,  had  made  a  bridge  from  David's  heart  to 
his  own. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

DAVID  sat  in  her  drawing-room  and  waited.  It  was 
late  spring,  a  warm  and  sunny  day,  and  she  wore  a 
white  dress  and  made  a  pretty  picture  as  she  sat  by  the 
long  window,  looking  out  into  the  Square. 

Judith  Home  had  been  in  England  nearly  two  months, 
and  she  and  David  had  not  yet  met.  This  was  partly  due 
to  the  fact  that  Judith's  headquarters  were  at  Camp  Willow 
with  her  friend  Mrs.  West,  and  that  her  visits  to  London 
were  of  the  kind  termed  flying,  but  partly  also  to  an 
absence  of  eagerness  on  David's  side  to  bring  about  a 
meeting.  To  herself  David  hardly  admitted  this  absence; 
her  surface  self,  indeed,  maintained  that  she  longed  to  see 
her  friend  of  the  old  Lapelliere  Says;  and  there  was 
something  in  her  heart  that  genuinely  echoed  the  long- 
ing. But  between  inmost  heart  and  surface  self  was  a 
layer  of  consciousness  which  shrank  from  seeing  Judy, 
which  was  antagonistic  to  her,  almost  bitter  against  her; 
and  it  was  in  this  part  of  David  that  the  various  obstacles 
which  had  hitherto  stood  in  the  way  of  a  meeting  had  really, 
though  not  apparently,  even  to  David's  self,  found  their 
origin. 

And  now,  at  last,  the  meeting  was  to  take  place.  Judith 
had  written  a  week  ago  and  suggested  coming  to  Man- 
chester Square  on  one  of  two  afternoons;  and  the  one 
part  of  David's  consciousness  had  found  no  adequate  ex- 
cuse wherewith  to  deceive  the  other  part  and  her  friend. 

167 


168  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

Now,  as  she  sat  waiting,  the  pleasure  of  Judy's  coming 
cast  into  the  background  the  disturbing  possibilities  of  her 
presence.  David  thought  of  the  face  she  had  admired, 
the  ways  that  had  appealed  to  her,  the  character  and 
mind  that  had  impressed  her  girlish  admiration.  Ah! 
but  there  came  in  the  doubt,  the  holding  back,  the  strain 
of  aloofness.  She  had  been  but  a  girl  at  Lapelliere, 
with 

Was  that  Judy,  now,  turning  the  corner  from  Duke 
Street?  Yes,  with  her  old  walk  and  her  old  confident 
air.  All  the  doubts  rushed  away  from  David's  mind,  and 
love  grew  warm  in  her  heart:  she  opened  the  French 
window  and  stepped  out  on  to  the  balcony. 

"Mrs.  Home !"  she  called,  and  Judith  stopped  and  looked 
up  and  smiled  at  her  and  waved  a  grey-gloved  hand. 

David  did  not  go  downstairs  to  receive  her  guest;  she 
•waited  by  the  window  and  only  moved  forward  when  Judy 
was  ushered  in.  The  two  women  met  half  way  across  the 
room. 

"I'm  so,  so  glad,"  David  said,  and  she  was;  in  that 
first  moment  of  meeting,  gladness  alone  possessed  her. 

"You  are  a  married  woman  now,"  said  Judith  presently, 
"and  so  we  are  peers,  and  there  must  be  no  more  'Mrs. 
Home.' " 

David  was  pleased;  the  old  charm  was  upon  her,  the 
old  adoration  was  stirring  anew.  Yet  in  her  pleasure 
she  was  not  wholly  comfortable,  wholly  at  peace.  To  her 
direct  nature,  complete  friendship  seemed  impossible  with- 
out complete  understanding,  and  she  knew  that  between 
herself  and  Judith  there  was  fixed  a  great  gulf  of  con- 
viction. Judith,  remembering,  probably,  the  gulf,  would 
be  unaware  how  much  it  had  widened  and  deepened;  un- 
aware that  what  had  been  in  the  girl  a  tacit  acceptance 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  169 

| 

of  her  father's  creed,  had  become  in  the  woman  an  article 
of  living  and  passionate  faith.  Would  it  be  better  at 
once  to  inform  her,  to  make  her  own  position  quite  clear? 
For  the  moment  Judith  took  the  decision  out  of  her 
hands.  She  was  in  no  mood  for  discussing  any  topics 
other  than  those  directly  personal;  and  she  must  hear 
about  David's  painting  and  her  daily  life,  and  be  shown 
over  the  house,  and — see  little  Vi. 

As  she  bent  over  the  child,  David's  heart  went  out  to 
her;  she  was  so  tender,  so  tactful,  and  so  free  from  em- 
barrassed commisseration.  Frankly  she  admitted  the 
tragedy  of  the  child's  condition;  frankly,  too,  yet  un- 
ostentatiously, she  showed  her  sympathy.  And  David, 
feeling  the  sympathy,  almost  forgot  the  gulf  between  them ; 
and  remembering  it,  was  half  persuaded  that,  confronted 
with  the  morsel  of  suffering  that  was  Vi,  Judy  would  leap 
its  depths  and  take  up  the  same  position  as  her  own.  But 
the  persuasion  was  hardly  strong  enough  to  find  its  way  to 
her  lips ;  and  downstairs  there  was  no  opportunity  of  utter- 
ing it,  for  in  the  drawing-room  Cranley-Chance  was  waiting 
for  his  tea. 

David  introduced  her  friend,  and  was  instantly  con- 
scious that  friend  and  husband  were  mutually  antago- 
nistic. Cranley  was  pompous,  superior,  and  distant;  and 
Judith's  manner  took  on  a  mockery  of  meekness  which 
David,  knowing  her  of  old,  recognised  as  a  danger  signal. 

When  she  had  gone  the  professor  turned  to  his  wife. 
"That's  the  woman  you  were  with  at  Lapelliere,  isn't  it  ?" 

"Yes.    She's  come  to  live  in  England." 

"In  London?" 

"I  don't  know.    Probably." 

"I  hope  not." 

The  colour  deepened  in  David's  cheeks.     "Why?"  she 


170  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

asked,  but  the  question  was  rhetorical,  since  instinctively 
she  knew  the  answer  to  it. 

"Because,  being  your  friend,  I  don't  want  to  forbid  her 
the  house;  but  frankly,  though  I  am  too  contemptuous 
of  her  and  her  kind  to  care  whether  I  see  her  or  not,  I 
dislike  to  receive,  or  that  my  wife  should  receive,  a  person 
of  her  views." 

"She  is  my  friend/'  said  David. 

"Sorry  for  it.    And  your  child's  friend?" 

Again  David  coloured.  "Whatever  she  may  think  or 
do,  her  motives  are  of  the  purest,"  she  said. 

"A  woman  who  thinks  more  of  a  few  cats  and  dogs 
and  guinea-pigs  than  of  a  child's  salvation !" 

"Oh,  Cranley,  it's  because  she's  never  been  brought  face 
to  face  with  an  actual  concrete  instance  of  what  her  views 
would  lead  to.  Believe  me,  if  she  once  sees  and  under- 
stands, she  will  take  the  right,  the  logical  view." 

"Women,  my  dear,  have  no  logic.  They  are  senti- 
mentalists, and  the  sentimentalist  has  no  sense  of  reason." 

"I  also  am  a  woman;  yet  you  have  repeatedly  called 
me  reasonable." 

"Your  mind  has  been  trained  by  men,"  answered  the 
professor,  and  went  downstairs  to  his  study. 

"I  wonder  by  what  men  my  mind  has  been  trained," 
David  reflected  when  she  was  left  alone.  "I  accepted 
father's  ideas  when  they  had  to  do  with  things  I  knew 
nothing  about;  but  when  it  came  to  things  I  did  know 

anything  about !  I  should  think  perhaps  Doggie  and 

Judith  Home  have  had  more  to  do  with  influencing  my 
mind  than  most  people.  But  nobody  knows  anything, 
can  judge  of  anything,  till  they  come  into  contact  with 
actual  facts,  tillj;hey  experience  things." 

Her  thoughts  ran  on,  setting  forth  her  progress  from 


PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS  171 

theories  to  convictions.  She  saw  herself  shaken  in  spite 
of  herself  by  Judy's  aims  and  arguments,  saw  herself 
intellectually  interested,  emotionally  indifferent;  then  saw 
emotion  leap  flame-like  at  the  touch  of  experience,  kindling 
a  very  furnace  of  convinced  enthusiasm.  No  more  philo- 
sophical dalliance  with  theories;  fact  had  ranged  feeling 
and  reason  side  by  side  in  fervent  activity.  The  suffering 
of  her  child,  the  bare  possibility  of  its  physical  salvation 
had  swept  aside  all  speculation,  all  questioning,  and  set 
in  their  place  unhesitating  certainty.  She  was  a  mother; 
she  had  a  suffering  child;  and  so  she  had  knowledge  of, 
could  authoritatively  pronounce  upon,  all  problems  in  which 
maternity,  childhood,  and  suffering  were  concerned.  So 
David  reasoned. 

If  she  had  been  told  that  there  is  no  problem  of  all 
life's  problems  which  can  be  entirely  dissociated  from  the 
rest,  none  that  is  not  affected  by  or  has  not  some  bearing 
on  the  others,  that  all  are  intertwined  and  all  must  be 
studied  ere  one  can  be  mastered,  she  would  have  protested 
with  the  vehement  protest  of  limited  observation.  For 
at  this  time  her  ignorance  of  life  was  great  in  proportion 
to  the  narrowness  of  her  experience;  and  her  experience 
was  as  narrow  as  is  that  of  most  people  who  lead  the 
kind  of  life  that  David  led,  who  meet  only  the  kind  of 
people  whom  David  met,  whose  imagination  is  either  not 
sufficiently  keen  or  sufficiently  awakened  to  enable  them 
to  realise  conditions,  emotions,  and  points  of  view  differ- 
ing from  their  own  and  those  of  their  immediate  neigh- 
bours. 

To  her  the  martyrdom  of  disease  was  the  only  martyr- 
dom that  mattered.  Tending  Vi,  she  knew  nothing  of 
the  mothers  who  must  leave  their  children  for  ten  hours  a 
day  to  earn  half  a  crown  a  week;  nothing  of  the  children 


172  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

who  begin,  as  infants  of  four,  a  daily  toil;  nothing  of 
the  tideless  sea  of  suffering  in  which  millions  of  sentient 
beings,  human  and  animal,  day  after  day  and  year  after 
year,  struggle  and  agonise  and  die.  If  David  had  been 
told  that  this  sea  is  fed  by  love  that  is  selfish  as  well  as 
by  selfishness  that  knows  no  love,  she  would  have  cried 
out  in  angry  incredulity.  All  love  for  another  was  un- 
selfish, and  a  mother's  love  supremely  free  from  the  taint 
of  self:  her  love  for  Vi  was  a  holy  thing,  and  all  im- 
pulses and  views  which  sprang  from  that  love  must  be 
holy,  too. 

Cranley-Chance,  satisfied  with  his  wife's  attitude,  was 
not  concerned  to  find  out  whether  she  had  reached  it  by 
means  of  sentiment  or  logic.  He  assumed  that  it  was 
the  outcome  of  association  with  his  own  scientific  mind. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

IT  was  not  possible  that  David  and  Judith  should  avoid, 
for  any  length  of  time,  the  open  recognition  of  the 
gulf  which  lay  between  them,  and  ten  days  after  their 
first  meeting  they  found  themselves  face  to  face  with  it. 

They  v^ere  in  the  nursery  at  the  time,  and  David  turned 
to  the  elder  woman  a  face  of  passionate  reproach. 

"How  you  can  look  at  that  little  white  face  and  think 
as  you  profess  to  think,  I  can't  imagine/'  she  cried. 

"I  have  looked  at  so  many  white  faces/'  Judy  said,  "so 
very  many,  of  quite  little  children,  who,  added  to  illness, 
had  hunger  to  bear,  and  cold,  and  neglect,  and  dirt.  I 
have  seen  them  with  nothing  to  look  forward  to  but  death, 
merciful  to  such,  or  life,  merciless;  life  with  starved,  de- 
generate bodies,  perverted  instincts,  stunted  brains.  I  have 
asked  what  science,  what  the  system  you  extol,  offers  for 
their  aid.  It  gives  them,  I  find,  vaccination,  anti-toxin  and 
serums,  in  experimental  profusion.  They  need  bread,  and 
science  offers  them  serums !" 

"Bread  is  the  province  of  charity,"  said  David.  "Science 
has  nothing  to  do  with  philanthropy." 

"Nothing,"  Judith  agreed,  "nothing." 

"I  mean/'  amended  David,  "as  far  as  feeding  goes. 
Science — medical  science,  I  should  say — is  concerned  solely 
with  the  curing  of  disease." 

"And  not  at  all  with  the  maintaining  and  procuring  of 
health." 

173 


174.  PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

"How  can  you  maintain  health  in  the  case  of — of  this 
little  child?"  said  David,  with  quivering  lips.  "To  pro- 
cure it — is  not  that  what  we  are  trying  to  do?  And  am 
I  not  justified,  is  science  not  justified,  in  using  every  avail- 
able means  to  find  out  how  it  is  to  be  done?" 

"If  the  death  of  another  child  could  restore  Vi  to 
what  she  was,  would  you  use  that  means?" 

"The  question  is  absurd.    Of  course  I  would  not." 

"Thafs  what  I  wanted  to  know;  where  you  draw  the 
line  between  honour  and  dishonour." 

"I  draw  the  line  between  right  and  wrong.  As  for 
honour — science  has  nothing  to  do  with  honour  or  dis- 
honour. Its  one  aim  is  to  know,  to  find  out,  to  discover. 
In  the  patient,  strenuous  work  of  science,  all  means  be- 
come honourable."  David  spoke  glibly;  the  pronounce- 
ment she  made  was  one  of  her  husband's  favourite 
aphorisms. 

As  she  spoke  she  moved  across  the  room  to  the  door, 
and  Judy  followed  her. 

Together  and  in  silence  the  two  women  descended  the 
stairs,  David's  face  showing  triumphant  indignation, 
Judith's  a  gentle  inscrutability;  but  when  they  reached 
David's  sitting-room,  Judith  turned  and  faced  her  friend. 

"If "  she  began;  but  David  interrupted  her. 

"We  had  better  not  discuss  this  any  more,"  she  said. 
"Better  leave  it  alone." 

"Xot  at  all,"  Judy  answered;  "we  will  discuss  it  fully, 
once  and  for  all,  and  then  for  ever  hereafter  hold  our  peace." 

"You  had  better  sit  down  then." 

"You  had  better.  As  for  me,  when  I  am  on  the  war- 
path I  like  to  keep  moving.  And  I'm  on  the  war-path  now." 

Her  words  brought  to  David  a  quick  vision  of  the 
Lapelliere  villa,  and  Judith  pacing  up  and  down  the 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  175 

flagged  floor,  giving  forth  from  the  store-house  of  her 
experience  and  conviction  things  both  new  and  old;  all 
of  them,  well-nigh,  in  those  days,  new,  strange,  and  original 
to  the  girl  who  watched,  admired,  and  loved  her.  She 

loved  her  still,  and  still — yes — admired  her;  but She 

who  had  been  a  girl  at  the  villa  was  a  woman  now,  with  her 
own  observation  of  life  to  guide  her,  her  own  experience; 
an  experience  fuller,  profounder  than  had  fallen  to  Judith's 
lot;  and  there  were  certain  things,  she  felt,  upon  which 
Judith  was  incompetent  to  pronounce  an  opinion.  A 
woman  who  had  never  had  a  child,  to  argue  with  a  mother 
upon  the  ethics  of  motherhood !  The  thing  was  absurd. 

She  sat  down  with  something  of  irritation  in  her  mind. 
The  great  gulf  fixed  between  her  and  Judith  was,  as  she 
now  recognised,  not  to  be  crossed;  Judith  had  refused 
the  firm  plank  offered  for  her  transit;  and  to  throw  out 
twigs  of  argument  which  could  never  bridge  the  depths 
was  a  waste  of  time — and  temper. 

"If,"  said  Judith,  standing  at  first  before  the  fireplace, 
"the  one  purpose  of  science  is  knowledge;  if  it  considers 
nothing  but  its  own  advancement ;  if  its  end  sanctifies  any 
and  every  means;  why,  in  the  name  of  all  that  is  logical, 
should  it  not  experiment  upon  the  human  body?" 

"Because  to  do  such  a  thing  would  be  against  the 
general  sense  of  humanity." 

"And  what  has  the  general  sense  of  humanity  got  to 
do  with  it?  Science  recognises  no  sentiments — and  hu- 
manity's sense  of  humaneness  is  undoubtedly  a  sentiment. 
The  aim  of  science  is  to  know,  to  find  out,  to  discover.  In 
its  patient,  strenuous  work,  all  means  become  honourable." 

"Ifs  all  very  well  to  quote  my  own  words  against  me, 
but  you  strain  their  sense.  Science  has  nothing  to  do  with 
false  sentiment,  but  it  is  not  inhumane." 


176  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

"Indeed?  That's  quite  another  contention;  and  a  shift- 
ing of  your  position.  Science  is  limited  now.  Working 
towards  its  end,  it  must,  in  its  methods,  draw  the  line  at 
those  which  are  inhumane.  So  the  question  now  is,  What 
is  inhumane  ?" 

"Anything  that  causes  or  increases  human  suffering; 
and  humaneness,  true  humaneness,  is  all  that  mitigates  or 
conquers  it." 

"It's  a  poor  humanity,"  said  Judith,  "that  sees  nothing 
but  itself ;  nothing  around  it — save  prey ;  nothing  beyond." 
She  began  to  move  up  and  down  the  room,  slowly  at  first. 
"But  your  two  definitions,  those  of  humaneness  and  inliu- 
maneness,  are  sometimes  conflicting.  Put  it  like  this,  for 
instance.  In  a  London  slum,  there  is — no,  I  won't  shock 
your  imagination;  I'll  protect  it  with  the  fence  of  time. 
Things  that  have  happened  long  ago — or  far  away,  matter 
so  little,"  said  Judy,  with  the  half-mocking  smile  with 
which  David  was  familiar. 

"The  time  of  a  thing's  happening  doesn't  make  any 
real  difference." 

"No;  but  we'll  put  it  back  fifty  years  nevertheless. 
Fifty  years  ago,  then,  there  was  born,  in  poverty  and 
wretchedness,  a  child  whose  fate  it  was  to  suffer  as  your 
little  Vi  is  suffering.  No,  sit  still;  and  remember,  it  was 
fifty  years  ago.  The  child  was  born  of  parents  who  were 
drunken,  poor,  and  callous;  there  was  no  chance  of  re- 
covery for  it,  no  hope  of  comfort  or  care;  its  apparently 
inevitable  fate  was  pain  and  a  speedy  death.  A  student 
attending  a  maternity  case  in  a  neighbouring  room  came 
across  it,  and  it  presently  came  about  that  the  child  was 
removed  to  the  hospital  to  which  the  student  belonged. 
One  of  the  visiting  physicians  had  been  studying  the 
child's  disease  for  many  years.  He  had  given  to  the 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  177 

study  time,  thought,  patience,  and  some  hundreds  of  rab- 
bits and  guinea-pigs,  cats,  monkeys,  and  dogs.  Yet  he 
had  never  quite  arrived  at  finding  out  what  he  wanted  to 
know.  His  labour  was  almost  wasted,  his  theories  received 
no  positive  support,  because  the  animals  he  sacrified,  in- 
stead of  playing  a  proper  part  in  the  proceedings,  failed 
to  back  him  up.  The  experiments  yielded  varying  results. 
That  the  effect  of  certain  processes,  certain  drugs,  should 
be  different  in  a  guinea-pig  from  what  it  is  in  a  dog,  may 
not  appear  surprising;  that  it  might  be  different,  again, 
in  a  human  being  would  seem  presumable.  It  may,  in 
theory,  have  seemed  so  to  this  doctor;  I  can't  say.  I  can 
only  tell  you  that  his  practice  proclaimed  the  doctrine,  as 
does  the  practice  of  experimenters  in  the  present  day,  that 
though  you  can't  argue  from  one  animal  to  another,  you 
can  argue  from  any  animal  to  man.  So  that  if  in  all 
guinea-pigs  the  results  had  been  the  same,  though  differ- 
ing from  those  obtained  from  rabbits;  if  all  rabbits  had 
responded  to  the  experiments  in  an  identical  way,  though 
the  way  was  not  the  way  of  the  monkeys,  cats,  and  dogs,  I 
suppose  the  doctor  would  have  been  as  well  satisfied  as  is 
any  vivisector  of  the  present  day,  until  he  has  actually 
tested  his  discovery  on  a  human  patient.  But  even  differ- 
ent rabbits  yielded  varying  results,  as  did  also  different 
dogs,  cats,  and  so  on;  and  the  doctor,  patient  still,  was 
puzzled.  It  may  seem  unreasonable  to  treat  as  an  exact 
science  a  science  like  physiology,  which  is  not  and  never 
can  exist;  but  that  is  what  this  doctor  did.  Because  in 
chemistry  two  pars  of  hydrogen  to  one  of  oxygen  inevitably 
produce  water,  he  persisted  in  hoping  that  if  he  only  went 
on  repeating  the  same  experiment  in  animal  substance 
long  enough,  in  the  end  it  would  produce,  every  time  he 
did  it,  the  same  results.  Having  vivisected  some  hundreds 


178  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

of  animals  in  vain,  he  did  not  reason  that  no  certain  result 
was  in  that  way  to  be  attained,  but  only — as  do  the  scientific 
leaders  of  the  present  day — that  the  less  satisfactory  the 
results  you  obtain,  the  more  persistently  you  must  go  on 
sacrificing  animals  to  what  is  called  scientific  research/* 

Judy  was  moving  quickly  now,  backwards  and  forwards, 
her  hands  behind  her  back.  She  paused  in  her  walk,  and 
waved  a  declamatory  hand.  "You  see  it,"  she  said,  "or 
rather,  you  don't  see  it — don't  realise,  that  is  to  say,  the 
wasteful  folly  of  it — in  this  cancer  research  business.  But 
it  is  a  fact  that,  after  all  these  years,  after  thousands  of 
pounds  have  been  spent,  thousands  of  animals  sacrificed, 
no  cure  has  been  discovered ;  nothing  that  has  been  worked 
out  through  animals  has  proved  to  be  of  any  use  in  the 
disease  in  man.  And  yet  the  cry  of  the  scientists  is  still 
and  always  the  same;  after  each  fallacious  hope  has  been 
hailed,  each  failure  slowly  acknowledged,  the  cry  is  still 
'More  money,  more  animals !  If  we  go  on  long  enough, 
we  must  find  out  something  in  the  end.'  " 

Judy  paused  once  more  in  her  walk.  "Yet  these  are 
the  men  who  pride  themselves  on  their  logic,  their  balanced 
judgment,  their  scientific  minds!"  She  shrugged  her 
shoulders  and  moved  on  again. 

"Well,  to  go  back  to  our  physiologist.  At  the  time  that 
the  little  slum  child  was  brought  into  the  hospital,  the 
physiologist  was  growing  downhearted.  He  had  a  theory, 
a  remedy,  which  would  save  hundreds,  thousands,  millions 
perhaps,  of  human  beings  from  suffering,  and  he  was 
unable  to  perfect  it  because  his  material  could  not  be  relied 
upon.  But  now  into  his  hands  was  given  material  as 
reliable  as,  in  a  science  which  is  not  exact,  material  can 
possibly  be.  And  the  doctor  was  confronted  with  a  prob- 
lem. On  the  one  hand  was  the  whole  of  the  human  race, 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  179 

around  him  now,  stretching  ahead  in  generations  yet  un- 
born ;  on  the  other  was  a  little  weakly  child,  with  nothing 
before  it  but  pain  and  death.  Was  he  justified,  in  the 
interests  of  science  (in  whose  service  nothing  is  dis- 
honourable) and  for  the  benefit  of  humanity  (in  whose 
service  all  is  justifiable),  in  using  as  material  for  his  ex- 
periment this  one,  already  doomed  child?" 

"Of  course  not."  David  was  thinking  of  the  child  up- 
stairs. "No,  certainly  no." 

"He  had  on  his  side,  on  the  side  of  science,  that  is,  all 
the  arguments  of  the  vivisectionists ;  he  had  the  two  con- 
flicting or  complementary  contentions — as  you  choose  to 
view  them;  first,  that  the  child  would  feel  no  pain;  and 
secondly,  that  if  it  suffered,  pain  was  an  unimportant 
factor  where  progress  is  concerned." 

"I  said  at  the  beginning,"  David  said  quickly,  "that 
the  line  must  be  drawn,  is  drawn,  at  experiments  on  human 
beings.  And  I  stick  to  it." 

"Yet  if  the  experiment  had  been  carried  out,  if  Vi  had 
been  benefited  by  it,  and  not  Vi  alone,  but  hundreds  like 
her,  would  the  doctor  not  have  been  justified  ?" 

David  did  not  answer  the  question.  "Are  you  invent- 
ing?" she  asked,  "or  was  there  such  a  doctor  and  such  a 
case?" 

"That  particular  doctor  and  that  particular  child  are 
fictitious.  The  problem  is  an  actual  one." 

"No ;  because  nobody  dreams  of  experimenting  on  human 
subjects." 

"To  that  statement  there  are  two  replies:  one  is  a 
question,  'Why  not?'  The  other  is  the  fact  that  many 
people  not  only  dream  of  it.  but  do  it." 

"No,"    said    David.      "It's    shameful   to    repeat    these 


>I80  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

groundless  anti-vivisectional  calumnies.  What  authority 
have  you  for  such  a  statement  ?" 

"We'll  leave  my  authority  and  the  anti-vivisectional 
calumnies  for  the  moment,  and  take  the  question  first.  I 
say,  Why  not?  I  know  of  no  argument  in  favour  of 
vivisection  which  logically  cannot  be  extended  to  the  in- 
clusion of  human  beings.  Limit  those  human  beings  even 
only  to  the  degenerate,  the  criminal,  the  outcast;  limit 
them  to  those  who  are  the  terror  and  the  curse  of  society. 
If  men  are  to  be  puinshed,  why  not  punish  them  in  a  way 
that  will  conduce  to  the  well-being  of  their  fellows  ?  Why 
not  inoculate  them  with  the  germs  of  disease  ?  The  ortho- 
dox medical  world  assures  us  that  such  inoculations  cause 
no  more  pain  than  a  pin-prick.  Why  not  send  them  to 
places  such  as  the  research  farms  at  Stansted  in  Essex, 
instead  of  to  a  penal  settlement  ?  If  there  is  no  immediate 
pain,  no  after  suffering,  what  is  the  objection?  They 
would  really,  if  all  that  the  vivisectors  tell  us  is  true,  have 
a  high  old  time  compared  with  what  they  go  through  on 
Dartmoor." 

"The  objection  is  that  one  revolts  from  any  sort  of 
experimenting  on  one's  fellow-creatures." 

"Yes;  that's  it;  yes.  There  is  no  reason  in  your  ob- 
jection; it's  pure  emotional  feeling.  Emotion,  sentiment, 
should  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  search  for  knowledge 
(I  speak  as  a  scientist) ;  yet  you  cannot  eliminate  them 
(I  speak  now  as  an  ordinary  human  being),  because  they 
enter  into  all  we  do  and  think — even  into  the  attitude  of 
vivisectionists.  Also  they  are  amongst  the  factors  which 
prevent  physiology  from  being  or  ever  becoming  an  exact 
science.  For  fear  may  vitiate  experiments  as  sure  as  does 
pain,  and  psychology  affects  physical  function  as  well  as 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  181 

moral  conduct.  But  your  feeling?  Why  do  you  have 
such  a  feeling?" 

"It's  a  natural  feeling — to  object  to  experiments  on 
fellow  human  beings." 

"I  don't  see  why,  if  it's  an  experiment  which  you  be- 
lieve would  cause  them  no  pain  and  much  less  discomfort 
than  they  endure  in  a  prison.  The  truth  is  that  in  your 
heart  of  hearts  you  don't  believe  it.  You  really  believe 
that  the  experiments  performed  on  animals  do  cause  pain ; 
in  spite  of  the  physiologists'  assurances  to  the  contrary, 
you  have  an  inward  conviction  as  to  the  suffering  entailed, 
and  you  shelter  yourself — where  animals  are  concerned — 
behind  what  is  nothing  more  or  less  than  a  comfortable 
fiction." 

"In  any  case,  whether  what  you  say  is  true  or  not,  there's 
a  difference  between  giving  pain  to  a  fellow-creature  and 
pain  to  an  animal." 

"The  animal  is  dumb,  and  even  more  defenceless  than 
that  large  contingent  of  fellow-beings  whom  society,  in 
the  form  of  sweating  and  in  other  ways,  ruthlessly  and 
constantly  oppresses.  But  the  step  from  animal  experi- 
mentation to  human  experimentation  is  as  small  as  that 
between  the  sublime  and  the  ridiculous.  Which  brings 
us  back  to  what  you  call  anti-vivisectional  calumnies." 

"Calumnies,"  put  in  David,  "which  have  been  so  often 
repeated  that  they  have  become  traditional,  and  are  accepted 
unquestionably  by  anti-vivisectionists  as  part  of  their  stock- 
in-trade." 

"Excuse  me  a  moment,"  Judy  said. 

She  left  the  room,  and  David  heard  the  frou-frou  of 
her  skirts  rustling  down  the  stairs.  Presently  she  re- 
turned, carrying  a  handbag. 

"I  happen  to  have  these  extracts  with  me,"  she  an- 


182  PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

nounced.  "Part  of  my  stock-in-trade  is  direct  evidence; 
part  of  my  business  is  to  collect  it." 

She  sat  down  by  David's  writing-table  and  placed  upon 
it  a  sheaf  of  newspaper  cuttings  which  she  took  from  the 
handbag.  "Do  you  challenge  me  as  to  the  truth  of  my 
statements?"  she  asked. 

David  nodded  her  head. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

*  T¥! HIS  is  from  the  Morning  Leader,"  prefaced  Judy. 
A  Then  she  began  to  read.  "  'It  has  been  dis- 
covered that  the  physicians  in  the  free  hospitals  of  Vienna 
systematically  experiment  upon  their  patients,  especially 
new-born  children,  women  who  are  enceinte,  and  persons 
who  are  dying.  In  one  case  the  doctor  injected  the  bacilli 
of  an  infectious  disease  from  a  decomposing  corpse  into 
thirty-five  women  and  their  new-born  children.  In  an- 
other case  a  youth,  who  was  on  the  high  road  to  recovery, 
was  inoculated,  and  he  died  within  twenty-four  hours. 
One  doctor  who  had  received  an  unlimited  number  of 
healthy  children  from  a  foundling  hospital  for  experi- 
mental purposes  excused  himself  on  the  ground  that  they 
were  cheaper  than  animals.'  'n  Judith  laid  down  the  piece 
of  newspaper.  "In  Austria  there  are  no  restrictions  on 
vivisection,"  she  said. 

"It's  a  falsehood,"  exclaimed  David,  "a  newspaper  fabri- 
cation. I  don't  believe  it." 

"It's  always  open  to  you  to  take  that  view  about  any 
evidence;  and  it  certainly  simplifies  one's  point  of  view. 
I  don't  know  whether  you  carry  it  to  the  extent  of  dis- 
believing a  man's  own  words?" 

"Even  a  man's  words  may  be  twisted  and  turned  so  as 
to  distort  their  meaning." 

"Even  when  the  man  has  written  them  down  himself?" 

'App.    5. 

183 


184i  PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS 

Judy  took  from  her  bag  a  periodical.  "This,"  she  said, 
"is  the  Bulletin  of  the  Johns  Hopkins  Hospital  for  July, 
1897.  The  first  article  in  it  is  one  of  a  series  of  studies 
on  the  lesions  induced  by  the  action  of  certain  poisons  on 
the  cortical  nerve  cell.  This  one  is  Study  VII:  Poisoning 
with  Preparations  of  the  Thyroid  Gland,  and  it  is  written 
by  Henry  J.  Berkeley,  M.D.,  Associate  in  Neuro-Pathology, 
the  Johns  Hopkins  University.  His  opening  paragraph, 
by  the  way,  is  rather  remarkable.  He  says  that,  with 
very  few  exceptions,  only  the  favourable  results  of  the 
thyroid  gland  extract  are  written  about  in  the  medical 
press,  and  that,  reviewing  some  of  those  results,  it  is  safe 
to  say  that  they  would  have  been  as  brilliant  had  no 
medicament  been  administered.  The  italics,"  said  Judy, 
looking  up,  and  referring  to  the  emphasis  she  had  placed 
on  the  last  words,  "are  my  own.  'The  first  portion  of 
the  investigation  was  made  upon  eight  patients  at  the 
City  Asylum.'  I  think  you  can  hardly  call  that  a  news- 
paper fabrication?"  Judy  held  up  the  paper.  "You  can 
come  and  read  for  yourself  if  you  like." 

"Of  course  I  don't  want  to  read  it  for  myself.  You 
are  absurd." 

"You  don't  want  the  details  of  each  experiment,  I  sup- 
pose? I  had  better  summarise." 

"Yes." 

"Out  of  the  eight  experiments,  one  was  successful;  in 
all  the  others  the  patients  suffered  to  no  purpose  (except, 
of  course,  to  prove  that  the  treatment  was  fallacious).  One 
died;  one  became  'absolutely  demented  and  degraded,'  to 
use  the  experimenter's  words;  all  lost  weight  and  became 
mentally  worse.1  In  America,  also,"  remarked  Judy,  "vivi- 
section is  free  from  restriction." 

»App.   6. 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  185 

"You  may  find  isolated  instances  of  anything,"  said 
David. 

"This" — Judy  took  up  another  paper — "hardly  sup- 
ports that  theory.  It  is  the  copy  of  a  Bill,  introduced  by 
Mr.  Gallinger  in  the  Senate  of  the  United  States,  and  is 
called  a  Bill  for  the  Regulation  of  Scientific  Experiments 
upon  Human  Beings  in  the  District  of  Columbia.1  I  have 
been  told  that  when  there  is  no  restriction  on  vivisection, 
the  temptation  to  experiment  on  human  beings  is  minim- 
ised. What  really  happens  is  that  callousness  as  to  animal 
suffering  leads  to  callousness  as  to  human  suffering,  too." 

"Such  things  could  never  happen  in  England." 

"Why  not  Is  English  human  nature  different  from  all 
other  human  nature?  I  will  send  you  round  Dr.  Sydney 
Ringer's  Therapeutics,  and  ask  you  to  read  the  passages 
I  mark.  For  the  moment,  however,  we  will  assume  that 
English  scientists  are  made  of  different  stuff  from  the 
scientists  of  any  other  nation;  and  I  will  only  draw  your 
attention  to  what  unrestricted  vivisection  has  led  to  in 
other  countries.  This  is  an  account  of  experiments  in 
connection  with  the  spinal  canal,  performed  and  described 
by  Dr.  A.  H.  Wentworth,  senior  Assistant-Physician  to 
the  Infants'  Hospital,  Boston.  They  were  performed  on 
children  in  that  hospital,  babies  varying  from  four  months 
to  three  and  a  half  years.2  Many  of  them  ended  in  death. 
I  have  any  number  of  things  of  the  kind  I  could  read  you. 
I  have  an  account  of  experiments  on  six  leper  girls  under 
twelve  years  of  age,  who  were  inoculated  with  the  virus  of 
a  loathsome  disease.3  I  have  an  account  of  Sanarelli's 
yellow  fever  experiments,  written  by  himself.4  But  I  won't 
ask  you  to  listen  to  them,  or  to  other  instances,  as  bad  or 
worse.  I  will  only  ask  you  to  listen  to  this  one  extract 

JApp.  7.  *App.  8.  »App.  9.  *App.  10. 


186  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

from  an  account  written  by  Professor  Schreiber,  of  Konigs- 
berg.  *I  am  sorry  to  say,'  he  says,  'that  it  is  very  difficult 
to  obtain  subjects  for  such  experiments.  There  are,  of 
course,  plenty  of  healthy  children  in  consumptive  families, 
but  the  parents  are  not  always  willing  to  give  them  up. 
Finally  I  got  a  little  boy  for  the  purpose.  My  patient  was 
very  susceptible  to  the  poison.  After  I  had  given  him  an 
injection  of  one  milligramme,  the  most  intense  fever  seized 
him.  It  lasted  three  or  four  days;  one  of  the  glands  of 
the  jaw  swelled  up  enormously.  I  could  discover  no  other 
changes  in  the  boy,  who  otherwise  appeared  healthy/  'n 

"The  man  was  a  brute,"  David  said,  as  Judy  paused. 
"There  are  brutes  everywhere,  in  everything.  You  can't 
judge  the  honourable  members  of  a  profession  by  such 
atrocities  as  these." 

"Nor  do  I.  There  are  hundreds — thousands  of  men, 
in  the  profession  as  well  as  out  of  it,  who  would  condemn 
such  doings.  Nor  do  I  associate  the  bulk  of  medical  men 
in  any  country  with  the  methods  of  the  more  famous  (or 
notorious)  few.  I  don't  suppose  that  any  one  can  think 
more  highly  than  I  do  of  the  men  who  pass  their  lives  in 
what  is  considered  the  drudgery  of  the  profession,  whose 
talents  receive,  perhaps,  no  recognition,  their  work  no 
reward,  and  who  go  on  steadily,  helping  with  their  strength 
and  sympathy,  their  practical  experience  and  knowledge, 
to  stem  the  tide  of  disease.  But  these  men — the  vast  bulk 
of  them — know  no  more  of  vivisectionist  practices  and 
reasoning  than — than  you  do.  They  accept  vivisection 
dogma  with  a  faith  which  would  be  touching,  were  it  not 
at  the  same  time  criminal.  Ignorance  makes  their  bliss, 
and  few  have  the  time,  fewer  the  inclination,  fewest,  per- 
haps, the  enterprise  to  disturb  that  bliss  by  personal  in- 

'App.  11. 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS  187 

vestigation.  But  now  I  want  you  to  note  something  besides 
what  you  term  the  atrocity  of  Schreiber's  experiment;  I 
want  you  to  note  that  an  injection  is  not  the  momentary 
and  painless  operation  that  we  are  assured  by  scientists  that 
it  is.  They  talk  of  a  pin-prick,  soon  over.  So  it  is;  but 
the  pin-prick  itself  is  only  the  prelude  to  suffering  which 
lasts  for  days  or  weeks." 

David  did  not  answer;  her  thoughts  were  again  with 
Vi;  her  imagination,  undeveloped  in  many  directions,  was 
quick  where  the  child  was  concerned,  and  she  saw  that 
child  in  the  hands  of  the  Konigsberg  professor. 

Judy,  divining  the  cause  of  her  abstraction,  was  silent 
for  a  while;  but  presently  she  turned  to  her  papers  again. 

"Before  we  close  this — I  don't  know  what  to  call  it — 
discussion?  conference? — I  want  to — I  must  point  out  to 
you  that  though  in  America  these  cases  I  have  instanced 
were  condemned  by  lay  opinion,  no  single  scientific  society 
has  protested  against  such  experiments.  On  the  contrary, 
some  scientists  have  positively  upheld  them.  One,  writing 
in  the  New  York  Independent,  declares  that  'A  human  life 
is  nothing  compared  with  a  new  fact  in  science.  .  .  . 
The  aim  of  science  is  the  advancement  of  human  knowl- 
edge at  any  sacrifice  of  human  life.  ...  If  cats  and 
guinea-pigs  can  be  put  to  any  higher  use  than  to  advance 
science,  we  do  not  know  what  it  is.  We  do  not  know  of 
any  higher  use  we  can  put  a  man  to.'1  There's  another 
writer  who  excuses  human  vivisections  on  the  ground  that 
they  are  made  for  the  good  of  suffering  humanity.  That 
excuse  has  a  very  familiar  ring  about  it." 

"It  could  never  happen  in  England,"  David  said  again. 

When  Judith  had  gone,  she  fled  to  the  nursery. 

"It  could  never  be  in   England,  it  could  never  be," 

*App.   12. 


188  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

she  repeated,  as  she  held  Vi  in  her  arms.     "And  the 

rest " 

All  the  animal  suffering  in  the  world  seemed  to  her  as 
nothing  compared  to  the  well-being,  nay,  the  possibility 
of  well-being,  of  her  own  little  child.  She  hugged  the 
little  one  close.  "It's  because  she  doesn't  know,"  she 
whispered.  "She  doesn't  know.  She  doesn't  know" 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

"  A  ND  now,  Sidney,  old  chap,"  said  Percy  Burdon, 

jLJL     "I've  got  a  piece  of  news  for  you." 

The  two  men  had  dined,  and  had  gone  into  Gale's  study 
— consulting-room  (it  was  sometimes  called  by  the  one 
name,  sometimes  by  the  other) — to  smoke.  A  pleasant, 
cosy  little  room  it  was,  looking  on  to  one  of  those  tiny 
back  gardens  in  which  London  abounds.  Dens  of  desola- 
tion they  often  are,  but  may  be  spots  where  restfulness 
hovers,  and  where  beauty,  in  its  lighter  form  of  prettiness, 
may  be  enticed  to  lodge.  Gale's  garden  was  pretty;  and 
restful,  too.  Very  simple  it  was;  just  a  space  of  gravel, 
hedged  round  by  shrubs ;  and  down  the  centre,  great  green 
tubs  in  which,  in  their  season,  bloomed  crocuses,  daffodils, 
and  that  unfailing  friend  of  the  London  gardener,  scarlet 
geranium.  It  was  trim  and  neat,  for  Gale  rose  early  to 
keep  it  so;  and  it  was  dear  to  him  as  the  product  of  his 
own  hands'  toil. 

This  evening  the  window  overlooking  the  garden  was 
open,  and  by  the  open  window  a  round  brass  tray,  with 
coffee  and  a  tobacco  jar,  stood  on  a  little  table.  For 
Gale  stuck  to  his  pipe.  Cigars,  he  maintained,  were  for 
specialists. 

"And  I  ain't  a  specialist,  not  yet,  not  by  a  long  chalk," 
he  said,  as  he  crammed  the  tobacco  into  his  briarwood. 
"Besides,  a  pipe's  more  companionable.  Cigars  ?  cigarettes  ? 

189 


190  PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

Here  to-day  and  gone  to — to-morrow?  They're  gone,  by 
Jove,  just  as  you're  getting  on  intimate  terms  with  'em. 
But  a  pipe  stands  by  you.  And  now,  what's  on  your  mind, 
Percy?" 

It  was  then  that  Percy  made  his  announcement:  "I've 
got  a  piece  of  news  for  you." 

Gale  looked  across  at  him,  a  smile  in  his  yellow-brown 
eyes.  "/  know.  You're  going  to  get  married." 

"How  the  dickens "  cried  Burdon. 

"A  piece  of  news — when  a  man's  single — always  means 
a  marriage.  The  wonder  to  me  is  how  you  managed  to 
keep  it  in  all  dinner." 

"Made  up  my  mind  I  would." 

"And  Percy's  mind,"  put  in  Gale,  "is  a  devilish  tough 
thing." 

"But  I  confess  it  was  a  struggle." 

"I  saw  the  struggle,  but  could  not  be  sure  whether  you'd 
poisoned  an  elderly  patient  or  proposed  to  a  young  one." 

"She's  not  a  patient,"  said  Burdon,  with  indignant  pride. 

"Keep  your  hair  on,  old  chap !  I  didn't  mean  to  suggest 
a  chronic  invalid." 

"I  do  know  people  down  there  who  aren't  patients,  you 
know." 

"Course  you  do;  all  the  elite  of  the  neighbourhood,  I'll 
be  bound.  Well,  and  what's  her  name?" 

"Her  name  is  Miss  Mary  Thompson.  They — they  call 
her  Polly." 

"They?    And  what  do  you  call  her?" 

"Well,  I — call  her  Polly,  too — now.  It  seemed  so 
strange  at  first,"  said  Burdon,  with  a  sort  of  dreamy  shame- 
facedness. 

"If  I  was  going  to  get  engaged  to  a  girl  called  Polly, 
Jove !  I'd  get  a  parrot  and  practise  on  it,"  said  Gale. 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS  191 

"Oh,  Sidney,  you're  just  the  same  old  rotter  that  you 
always  were!" 

"Am  I  ?"  Gale  looked  at  his  friend  with  a  glance  half- 
laughing,  half-rueful ;  then  shook  his  head — ever«o  slightly. 
"Anyhow,  I  wish  you  luck,"  he  said,  "real,  downright, 
thundering  luck.  And  there's  my  hand  on  it." 

He  stretched  out  his  hand,  and  Burdon  took  it,  and  held 
it  a  -moment,  in  a  way  that  was  almost  a  caress,  in  a  way 
that  was  typical  of  his  attitude  towards  his  friend. 

"Have  some  more  coffee,"  said  Gale,  edging  away  from 
anything  approaching  to  sentiment. 

"No,  thanks.    I  say,  Sidney " 

"Say  on!" 

"I  wish  you'd  marry." 

Burdon  had  not  glanced  upwards  in  the  church  that 
day  of  David's  marriage,  as  Mrs.  Lowther  had  done,  and 
had  not  therefore  seen  Gale  hugging  his  misery  in  the  gal- 
lery. He  knew  nothing  of  the  extra  shabby  clothes  which 
Gale  had  donned,  nothing  of  the  very  unkempt  appearance 
of  his  head,  was  uncertain,  indeed,  as  to  how  far  his  cousin's 
marriage  had  affected  his  friend.  But  conscious  of  the 
false  impression  he  had  conveyed  to  Lowther,  he  had  never 
escaped  from  a  sense  of  self-reproach,  and  was  haunted  by 
an  uneasy  suspicion  that  his  mistake  had  cost  Gale  dear.  If 
only  Gale  would  marry  his  self-reproach  would  die  down, 
his  uneasiness  cease ;  and  now  perhaps,  in  this  confidential 
hour,  Gale  would  give  him  a  hint  that  his  heart  was  healed 
of  its  boyish  hurt  by  a  love  of  more  recent  growth.  But 
Gale  shook  his  head ;  and  so  forcibly  that  his  hair  rebelled 
successfully  against  the  bondage  imposed  on  it.  by  wet 
brushes.  He  smoothed  it  into  place  again  as  he  spoke. 

"Not  my  line,"  he  said  briefly. 


192  PRIESTS   OF.  PROGRESS 

"Nonsense.  Why,  you're  cut  out  to  make  some  woman 
happy." 

"If  that's  so,  the  woman  and  I  haven't  managed  to  get 
introduced.  But  never  mind  me,  old  chap.  Tell  me  about 
Miss  Polly  Thompson.  Why,  man,  you  haven't  mentioned 
the  colour  of  her  eyes." 

It  was  not  difficult  to  get  Percy  to  talk  of  his  own  affairs. 
Polly's  eyes  were  blue,  he  said,  and  her  hair  quite  fair — and 
curling;  in  natural  curls.  "No  tongs  there,"  said  Burdon 
with  chuckling  pride. 

"Tongs?"  questioned  Gale.  His  eyes  turned  towards 
the  fender. 

"Curling  tongs,  you  innocent;  not  fire-irons."  Percy 
laughed;  then  went  on  with  a  condescension  born  of  su- 
perior knowledge.  "Most  of  the  curls  and  waves  you  see  are 
done  with  tongs.  Haven't  you  noticed  when  it's  damp 
they  come  out?" 

"Lord!"  said  Gale,  "so  they  do!  In  slums,"  he  added 
gravely,  "they  do  it  with  curl  papers.  By  the  way,"  he  went 
on  presently,  "coming  back  from  a  slum  to-day,  I  passed 
Hall's  old  diggings.  Heard  anything  about  him  lately  ?" 

"Oh,  yes.  Truth  to  tell,  I'm  rather  fed  up  with  Hall. 
Every  time  I  come  up  to  London  Uncle  Bernard  stuffs  him 
down  my  throat.  He's  this,  that,  and  the  other,  going  to 
make  a  name  and  a  career,  and  I  don't  know  what  all. 
Well,  he's  clever,  of  course — I  suppose^ " 

"Yes;  much  cleverer  than  you,  old  chap.  Never  mind; 
I  like  you  best.  Well,  what's  he  doing  ?  Still  in  Germany  ? 
He  hasn't  written  me  even  the  ghost  of?  a  letter  for  I  don't 
know  how  long." 

"ISTo;  he's  in  Paris,  at  the  Pasteur.    Got  a  post  there." 

"I  didn't  know ;  but  it's  quite  his  line.    Suit  him  to  a  T." 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS  193 

"David  tells  me  Cranley  saw  him  when  he  was  over  in 
Paris  in  February." 

"  Ah !    Do  he  and  Chance  hit  it  off  ?" 

"Rather.  Quite  pally,  I  think.  Hard  lines  about  the 
child,  isn't  it?" 

"Very.    She  feels  it  terribly — your  cousin,  I  mean." 

"She  says  very  little  about  it  to  me." 

"And  nothing  at  all  to  me.  Indeed,  we  very  rarely  meet. 
But  you  can  see  it  in  her  face." 

"Can  you?    She  looks  very  well,  I  think." 

"  Glad  to  hear  it.    I  haven't  seen  her  for  some  time." 

"I  suppose  one  gets  used  to  everything." 

"Possibly;  or  one  stops  kicking  against  it." 

In  Burden's  mind  the  uneasiness  stirred  anew.  Had 
Sidney  gone  through  a  kicking  process  at  the  time  of 
David's  marriage  ?  and  had  he  ceased,  not  to  feel,  but  just 
to  kick  ?  He  stole  a  glance  at  his  friend's  face,  but  the  face 
was  impenetrable.  Gale's  eyes  were  on  the  patch  of  garden ; 
he  was  smoking  steadily,  leaning  back  slightly  in  his  chair, 
his  legs  crossed,  and  his  right  hand  resting  on  the  upper- 
most knee.  It  was  an  attitude  Percy  knew  of  old,  and  gen- 
erally meant  that  Gale  was  thinking.  He,  in  his  turn, 
leaned  back,  and  for  a  time  both  men  were  silent.  Percy 
was  disturbed  at  first  by  self-reproachful  qualms  as  to  the 
condition  of  Gale's  heart;  but  his  chair  was  a  very  com- 
fortable one,  conducive  to  reflection  of  a  pleasing  and  tran- 
quil nature,  and  soon  his  thoughts  passed  from  that  un- 
toward interference  of  his  (after  all,  it  was  ten  years  ago, 
and  Sidney  must  have  got  over  it  by  this  time,  even  if. there 
had  been  anything  to  get  over)  to  Polly,  her  blue  eyes,  and 
her  hair  that  curled  without  the  aid  of  tongs. 

Gale's  thoughts  were,  as  Burden's  unquiet  conscience  had 
at  first  suggested,  with  David,  but  not  with  the  David  of 


194.  PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

ten  years  ago.  He  was  thinking  of  her  as  he  had  seen  her 
last.  To  Burdon  he  had  said  that  her  face  showed  how 
much  she  felt  her  child's  illness :  his  thought  to  himself  was 
that  she  bore  on  her  brow  the  crown  of  motherhood,  and  held 
within  her  eyes  the  shadow  of  its  cross.  He  longed  to  com- 
fort her ;  but  it  was  characteristic  of  him  and  the  feeling  he 
had  for  her  that  he  shaped  that  longing  into  a  desire  to  help 
the  child.  Perhaps  from  the  present  his  thougths  wended 
their  way  back  to  the  past ;  perhaps,  thinking  of  her  as  she 
was  now,  he  contrasted  her  with  the  girl  he  first  had 
known;  and  from  thoughts  of  that  girl  and  the  scenes  in 
which  she  figured,  passed  to  less  pleasant  memories.  His 
first  words,  breaking  a  ten  minutes'  silence,  were — 

"Remember  Sarah  Jennings?" 

"Remember  Sarah  Jennings?  Rather!"  It  was  but  a 
few  minutes  since  she  had  been  uncomfortably  prominent  in 
Percy's  mind. 

"I  saw  her  the  other  day.  I've  always  seen  her,  poor 
soul,  from  time  to  time,  but  it  was  a  good  six  months  since 
we'd  come  across  one  another,  and  I  was  beginning  to  think 
she'd  gone  under " 

"I  should  have  thought  she'd  have  done  that  long  ago, 
drinking  as  she  did." 

"She  didn't  drink;  that's  the  answer.  She  got  drunk 
more  than  once  at  one  time;  but  that's  a  different  thing, 
and  I — she  stopped  it  in  time." 

"Good  for  Sarah.    Well,  what  about  her?" 

"Oh,  nothing  much.  She's  married  again,  that's  all.  A 
swagger  marriage  from  her  point  of  view." 

"Not  from  yours?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  say  that.  And  it's  a  great  thing  for  her 
to  be  provided  for — and  the  children.  But,  by  God !  Percy, 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  195 

there  are  some  dirty  sides  to  this  scientific  vivisection  busi- 
ness." 

"What  on  earth  has  scientific  vivisection  got  to  do  with 
Sarah  Jennings  ?" 

"Binney,  she  is  now.  She's  married  one  of  the  men  in 
Bellows  and  Parr's, — you  know,  the  wholesale  chemists; 
and  the  husband — I  went  down  to  pay  a  state  wedding  call 
—took  me  through  the  show,  and  I  saw  cocks  with  their 
combs  black  with  gangrene,  and  other  pleasing  sights;  the 
anti-toxin  horses  amongst  them.  Poor  brutes!" 

"  You  can't  help  it,  you  know.  The  stuff's  got  to  be  got, 
and  for  the  good  of  humanity " 

"Oh,  damn  humanity!"  burst  in  Gale.  "Rhetorically 
speaking,  I  say  damn  humanity !" 

"Oh,  I  say!"  cried  Burdon,  with  round  eyes. 

"It  seems  to  me  that  every  blessed  beastliness  I  come 
across  is  said  to  be  for  the  good  of  humanity.  I  sometimes 
wonder" — Gale  was  speaking  more  slowly  now,  and  his 
keen  eyes  grew  a  shade  dreamy — "if  we  shouldn't  do  more 
for  humanity,  by  trying  to  make  it  just  simply  clean.  It's 
precious  dirty  now,  whichever  way  you  look  at  it." 

"The  mass  of  people,  all  the  lower  classes,  for  instance, 
are  dirty,  I  suppose ;  but " 

"Lord,  man,  I'm  not  talking  about  the  lower  classes;  nor 
about  the  dirt  that  can  be  cured  by  soap  and  water.  What 
I  mean  is  dirty  blood,  foul  with  all  sorts  of  bad  habits  and 
bad  air  and  bad  food." 

"I  don't  know  how  you  are  going  to  clean  it." 

"I  begin  to  doubt  if  we  shall  ever  do  it  by  pouring  in 
animal  nastinesses.  I  begin  to  wonder  whether,  if  we 
preached  clean  living  and  clean  feeding,  we  shouldn't  do  a 
power  more  good." 

"Good  God,  Sidney!"  said  Burdon,  with  a  face  of  genu- 


196  PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS 

ine  consternation,  "you're  not  going  to  turn  into  a  crank 
or  a— an  A.-V.?" 

Gale  laughed.  "Not  to-night,  anyhow.  But  look  here, 
Percy,  I  was  talking,  not  long  ago,  to  Herbert  Snow,  and 
he  told  me  that  in  all  the  years  he  has  studied  cancer  he  has 
learned  nothing,  except  from  his  clinical  experience;  that 
any  treatment  which  he  has  found  to  be  of  the  slightest  use, 
palliative  or  ameliorative,  has  been  the  result  of  his  clinical 
experience.  And  more  than  tliat.  Every  theory  advanced 
by  the  Cancer  Eesearch  people  he  has  found  to  be  mislead- 
ing, every  remedy  brought  forward  has  been  futile  or  worse.1 
These  things  make  a  man  think.  Especially  when  you  con- 
sider all  the  time  and  money  and  animals  that  have  gone  to 
the  making  of  the  mistakes." 

"Well,  I  shouldn't  advise  you  to  talk  to  David  like  that. 
Any  argument  against  research  drives  her  wild." 

"Why?" 

"Because  of  little  Vi.  All  her  hopes  are  set  on  something 
being  found  out  that  will  do  her  good." 

"Poor  thing!"  said  Gale. 

Presently  he  began  to  talk  about  the  old  student  days, 
and  for  the  rest  of  the  evening  Percy's  soul  delighted  itself 
in  laughter. 

*App.   13. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

SIDNEY  GALE  had  a  mind  which  was  not  made  in 
watertight  compartments,  but  was  constructed,  so  to 
speak,  in  the  form  of  one  undivided  tank.  Disposed  to 
question,  therefore,  he  could  not  limit  inquiry;  could  not 
shut  off  the  probing  faculty  from  certain  subjects,  while 
he  exercised  it  freely  in  others.  But,  looking  round  at  the 
men  with  whom  he  chiefly  mingled,  he  found  that  what 
was  impossible  to  him  was  easy  to  them.  Sceptical  in  cer- 
tain directions,  his  professional  comrades  maintained  in 
others  a  blind  faith.  Questioning  religion,  morality,  social 
relations,  even,  occasionally,  political  institutions,  they  re- 
mained, where  conventional  science  was  concerned,  com- 
pletely credulous.  For  Gale  such  mental  reservations  did 
not  exist;  nevertheless,  in  the  region  of  his  profession  he 
held  investigation  in  check;  not  complacently,  as  did  his 
fellows,  but  deliberately,  half  scorning  the  motives  which  set 
shackles  on  his  mind. 

The  motives  were  those  of  ambition;  for  at  the  age  of 
thirty-five  ambition  was  the  chief  fiactor  in  Gale's  life, 
following  on  that  love  which  had  come  almost  as  a  religion 
to  his  turbulent  youth.  That  love  still  in  a  sense  com- 
panioned him,  but  was  no  longer  dominant ;  on  the  throne 
of  his  being  sat  ambition,  and  imposed  upon  him  the  re- 
strictions of  expediency.  He  must  restrain  his  scepticism, 
stay  his  search  for  truth,  lest,  finding  truth,  he  should  find 
himself  at  odds  with  all  that  makes  for  success,  be  com- 
pelled to  join  the  ranks  of  the  rebels,  the  unorthodox.  He 

197 


198  PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

knew  well  that,  joining  those  ranks,  he  would  run  the  risk 
of  substituting  for  success  ignominy ;  of  losing  his  growing 
reputation  for  ability,  and  finding  that  of  a  fool,  a  knave, 
and  probably  a  traitor;  and  knew  that,  eligible  ostensibly 
for  every  post  of  honour,  he  would,  in  fact,  be  debarred 
from  all.1 

Knowing  all  this,  he  was  disposed  to  tread  the  safe  way 
that  ambition  pointed  out:  the  way  of  limited  logic,  of 
partial  observation,  of  restricted  inference;  yet  still  was 
haunted  by  an  importunate  spirit  which  suggested  doubts 
and  propounded  problems. 

Hitherto  he  had  been,  so  far  as  his  profession  was  con- 
cerned, what  is  called  lucky.  The  little  turns  and  chances 
of  life  fell  out  to  his  advantage,  and  he  had  outdistanced 
in  the  race  for  success  many  men  who  had  started  with 
better  prospects  than  his.  Though  to  the  circle  of  men  who 
divide  the  honours  of  the  medical  world  he  was  almost 
unknown,  since  his  practice  was  general,  and  he  had  not  at- 
tempted to  qualify  for  the  prizes  of  the  profession  by  vivi- 
gectional  experiments,  amongst  the  men  of  his  own  standing 
his  reputation  was  spreading,  and  his  opinion  was  con- 
stantly asked  for  when  the  faith  of  patients  or  patients' 
friends  was  not  pinned  to  a  prominent  name. 

It  was,  indeed,  chiefly  as  a  consultant  that  he  was  making 
way,  and  the  way  widened,  almost  from  month  to  month. 
He  lived  now  in  Montagu  Street ;  he  had  a  man-servant  and 
a  brougham ;  and  though  he  had  not  for  his  wife  the  woman 
who  was  his  ideal  of  womanhood  (and  he  would  have  no 
other),  ambition  and  the  righting  instinct  which  loves 
contest  for  its  own  sake  made  work  and  striving  and  success 
seem  well  worth  while. 

Yet,  like  all  those  who,  with  highly  strung  organisations, 

'App.   14. 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS  199 

have  not  reached  the  supremacy  of  balance  which  controls 
or  conquers  moods,  he  had  his  days  of  darkness ;  days  when 
the  ordinary  inducements  to  work  had  lost  their  compelling 
strength;  days  when  success  seemed  unattainable,  or,  if 
attained,  worthless. 

One  of  these  days  followed  an  evening  on  which  he  had 
dined  with  Judith  Home.  His  fellow  guests  were  few  in 
number;  Judith's  great  friend  Mrs.  West  was  there,  and 
Miss  Barker,  and  John  Cameron;  and  besides  these  and 
himself,  only  one  other,  a  philosopher  and  scientist,  well 
known  in  Europe  and  beyond  it. 

The  talk  had  been  unlike  most  dinner-party  talk.  Be- 
ginning with  a  certain  measure  of  formality,  resulting  from 
the  fact  that  some  of  the  guests  were  strangers  to  the  others, 
it  had  seemed  to  leap  suddenly  from  the  beaten  track  of 
ordinary  conversation  into  byways  unusual  and — to  Gale — 
entirely  unexplored;  byways  which  led  to  a  region  of  such 
strange  experience,  such  vast  suggestiveness,  that  Gale's 
mind,  used  to  the  cramped  speculation  of  a  single  science, 
panted,  as  it  were,  in  the  rarer  and  radiant  atmosphere. 
Then,  as  he  listened,  his  mind  attuned  itself,  and  passed 
from  bewilderment  to  elation,  to  understanding,  to  acute 
interest.  Suddenly  it  seemed  to  him  that  theories  which  in 
days  gone  by  Cameron  had  hinted  at  or  propounded,  and 
which  he  intellectually  had  glanced  at  and  dismissed,  had 
become  not  only  brilliant  hypotheses  but  probable  explana- 
tions of  actual  facts.  In  his  work-a-day  life  he  had  rele- 
gated his  inherent  idealism  to  the  background  of  his  con- 
sciousness ;  but  now  he  was  on  a  plane  where  ideals  became 
living  possibilities;  where  heroism,  self-sacrifice,  love,  in 
their  highest  forms,  were  not  poets'  dreams  but  practical 
duties;  where  the  touchstone  of  morality  was  unselfishness, 
and  knowledge  was  not  an  acquirement  but  a  gift.  Gale, 


200  PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

with  something  in  himself  that  answered  to  the  ideas  put 
forward,  was  roused  to  enthusiasm;  it  seemed  to  him  that 
his  mind,  his  whole  being  expanded,  and  life  was  higher, 
finer,  more  splendid  than  he  had  ever  conceived  it. 

He  went  home  in  a  state  of  exaltation,  lifted  out  of  his 
ordinary  self,  raised  above  the  ordinary  world;  and  awoke 
the  next  morning  to  a  cold  and  blank  reaction.  All  day  it 
held  him,  casting  scorn  upon  the  fervour  of  the  night  be- 
fore, and  robbing  the  daily  outlook  of  interest.  Walking 
home  about  six  o'clock,  its  grip  was  upon  him  still.  His 
soul  that  had  soared  high  on  the  wings  of  its  potentialities, 
lay  low  in  the  grasp  of  its  limitations;  he  was  weary  and 
dissatisfied;  oppressed  by  a  sense  of  emptiness  and  un- 
reality. 

Then  into  his  world  of  gloomy,  half -formed  thought  there 
broke  a  sound;  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  he  heard  but 
seldom,  but  always  loved  to  hear. 

"Are  you  quite  determined  to  cut  me?"  it  said. 

Gale  started,  and  life  and  life's  interests  rushed  back 
upon  him  in  a  flood.  "Mrs.  Chance!"  he  exclaimed.  "I 
never  saw  you." 

"You  were  up  in  the  clouds,  I  think." 

"No,  down  in  the — in  the  drains,  rather." 

"What  an  unsavoury  simile!  You  live  in  this  street, 
don't  you?" 

"Yes,  just  there,  over  the  way." 

"I'll  walk  with  you  to  the  door.  I  wanted  to  ask — to 
know  if  you  had  seen  my  mother  lately." 

"No,  not  quite  lately.  I've  been — I  was  going  to  say 
busy,  and  that's  true — but  I've  been  remiss,  too." 

"I  wish  you  would  look  in  sometimes.  You're  one  of 
the  people  she  cares  to  see,  and  it  cheers  her." 

They  had  reached  Gale's  door  now  and  stopped  before  it. 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS  201 

"You  won't  come  in?"  he  said. 

He  expected  an  instant  and  decided  negative,  but  it 
seemed  to  him  that  David  hesitated. 

"Do,"  he  begged,  "do  come  in !" 

Standing  on  his  doorstep,  he  realised  that  the  rooms 
within  the  house  were  lonely,  and  saw  hi  a  flash  that  were 
David  to  enter  them,  they  would  be  sanctified  for  ever  after 
by  the  memory  of  her  presence.  Just  here  she  had  stood; 
had  sat  in  that  chair;  had  turned  her  eyes  on  that  book  or 
picture.  The  vision  was  compelling. 

"Do  come  in !"  he  said  again. 

"Well — for  five  minutes." 

There  was  still  a  faint  hesitation  in  David's  voice,  but 
her  words  were  a  permission  to  turn  the  latchkey  in  the 
door,  and  in  a  moment  the  door  was  open. 

It  was  Gale's  turn  to  hesitate  now.  Should  he  take  her 
to  the  sitting-room  upstairs?  or — he  wanted  so  much  to 
feel  that  she  had  been  in  the  room  where  he  did  most  of 
his  work.  But,  after  all,  the  study  was  to  some  extent  a 
public  room,  the  room  where  he  saw  his  patients,  and  into 
the  room  upstairs  few  went  except  himself.  He  stood  aside, 
and  made  a  sign  for  David  to  precede  him  up  the  staircase. 

When  she  entered  the  sitting-room  she  stopped  and  said, 
"Oh,  how  charming!" 

"You  like  it?" 

"Who  could  help  liking  it?" 

The  walls  of  the  room,  except  those  which  were  broken  by 
the  windows  and  the  fire-places,  were  lined  with  book- 
shelves, beginning  about  four  feet  from  the  ground  and 
reaching  to  the  ceiling;  and  below  the  book-shelves  ran 
seats,  wide,  low,  and  cushioned.  On  the  red-painted  floor 
one  or  two  rugs  were  spread ;  in  the  front  part  of  the  room 
stood  a  couple  of  comfortable  arm-chairs  and  a  good-sized 


202  PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

table;  in  the  back  part,  before  the  window,  was  a  smaller 
table;  over  each  mantelpiece  hung  a  picture. 

"Come  and  sit  down,"  said  Gale,  "and  I'll  ring  for  tea." 

"No,  no  tea,  please.  1 — mustn't  stay.  I  think  I  should 
like  to  sit  on  that  seat.  May  I  ?" 

She  seated  herself  on  the  divan,  near  the  window,  and 
Gale  brought  a  chair  to  the  other  side  of  the  window  and 
sat  facing  her. 

"Yes,  it's  all  delightful,"  she  said,  looking  round,  but 
to  Gale's  quick  perception  it  was  apparent  that  her  thoughts 
were  not  in  her  words ;  her  eyes,  momentarily  meeting  his, 
seemed  to  carry  an  appeal. 

Diffident  in  thought,  he  was  bold  in  speech.  "Is  any- 
thing troubling  you?"  he  said,  with  a  directness  which  had 
always  pleased  her. 

David  coloured  slightly.  "Yes;  a  foolish  thing,  perhaps, 
but  it  does  trouble  me."  She  smiled.  " I  believe  that's  why 
I  came  in." 

"Because  I  can  help  you?"  An  eager  light  sprang  into 
Gale's  eyes. 

"I — when  I  saw  you  coming  along  the  street,  I  fancied 
you  might.  I  think,"  said  David,  with  some  inconsequence, 
"if  one  doesn't  speak  of  things,  they  grow  inside  one  into 
importance — when  perhaps  they  are  not  important  at  all." 

"I  think  they  do." 

"I've  been  seeing  a  good  deal  of  Mrs.  Home,"  David 
went  on.  "I  think  you've  met  her?" 

"Yes."  Gale's  thoughts  went  back  to  the  previous  eve~ 
ning.  "An  interesting  woman." 

"Ye — yes.  Yes,  she  is  interesting.  And  intelligent?" 
Interrogation  was  but  half  developed  in  David's  voice, 
which  divided  statement  with  inquiry. 

"Unusually  intelligent." 


PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS  203 

"Cranley  doesn't  like  her." 

"No?" 

"That's  why  I  can't  speak  about  it  to  him." 

"I  see." 

"You  see  she's  a  faddist;  and  Cranley  can't  bear  fads. 
No  more  can  father.  That  is  to  say,  certain  fads.  Of 
course  they  have  their  own." 

"Most  people  have." 

"Now  Mrs.  Home's  fad  is  just  the  fad  that  drives  them 
both  mad." 

"I  see." 

"I  wish  you'd — you'd  say  something — longer,"  said 
David. 

"I'll  make  a  regular  speech  when  I  know  what's  the 
matter." 

David  looked  out  of  the  window,  then  at  Gale,  then  out 
of  the  window  again ;  and  then  she  began  to  speak,  rapidly, 
her  words  tumbling  one  upon  the  other  as  though  she  had 
suddenly  opened  a  door  against  which  they  had  been  striv- 
ing for  utterance. 

"She's  been  talking  to  me,  Judy  has,  and  telling  me 
horrible  things — things  than  can't  be  true.  And  yet  she 
has  proofs  I  can't  sweep  away.  But  they  can't  be  true, 
because  they  go  against  other  truths — things  that  I  know, 
things  that  are  noble  and  pure,  and  that  come  before  every- 
thing else.  I  know  I'm  on  the  right  side,  the  side  that's 
fighting  against  disease  and  suffering  and  death;  and  yet 
the  things  she  says  haunt  me.  I  can't  get  rid  of  them,  I 
can't  answer  them.  I  know  there  must  be  an  answer,  but 
I  can't  find  it." 

David  stopped  speaking;  her  eyes  were  still  upon  the 
street;  she  sat  waiting;  waiting,  as  Gale  knew,  for  an  an- 
swer. That  she  should  have  come  to  him  for  that  answer 


204.  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

touched  him  almost  to  pain ;  the  longing  to  give  it  was  in- 
tense. But  the  desire  that  filled  his  heart  found  in  his 
mind  no  adequate  support.  All  the  arguments  which  he 
had  used  and  had  heard  used  in  support  of  practices  which 
he  instinctively  disliked  and  deliberately  condoned  were 
ready  to  his  mental  handling;  but  they  seemed  to  him,  in 
the  face  of  David's  prayer  for  a  solid  ground  of  righteous- 
ness, and  in  the  faint  reflection  of  the  light  which  he  had 
glimpsed  last  night,  sophistical  and  poor.  What  availed 
it  to  speak  of  the  good  of  humanity,  when  he  knew,  and  she, 
too,  must  know,  or  she  would  not  be  held  by  her  present 
distress,  that  humanity's  chief  gain  lay  not  in  the  direction 
of  bodily  ease,  but  in  the  perfecting  of  its  spiritual  nature? 
What  use  to  urge  the  paramount  claims  of  material  science, 
when  they  both  sensed,  however  dimly,  that  there  were 
higher  laws  which  overrode  those  claims  ? 

David  seemed  to  know  what  was  in  his  mind.  "Don't 
tell  me  the  ordinary  things,"  she  said,  turning  her  face 
towards  him.  "I've  heard  them  all  so  often,  from  Cranley 
— and  father.  There  must  be  something" — she  sought  for 
a  word — "something — fundamental  which  reconciles  right 
with  right." 

"Or  right  with  wrong,"  said  Gale,  and  then  wished  he 
had  not  said  it,  for  the  distress  in  David's  eyes  seemed  to 
deepen. 

"It's  Vi,  you  see,"  she  said.  (As  if  he  did  not  know  the 
source  of  her  trouble!)  "There's  nothing,  there  can  be 
nothing,  purer,  holier  than  a  mother's  love.  Am  I  to  deny 
that  love,  am  I  to  let  my  little  helpless  child  go  on  suffer- 
ing for  the  sake  of — of  brute  beasts  ?" 

Should  he  merely  soothe  her;  just  say  "No,"  and  soothe 
both  himself  and  her?  To  his  sense  of  logic  it  was  abun- 
dantly apparent  that  if  the  dictates  of  a  mother's  love,  or 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS  205 

any  human  love,  were  to  be  the  test  of  morality,  every 
crime  or  cruelty,  every  meanness  or  treachery,  would  be  per- 
missible in  the  service  of  that  love.  But  was  it  worth  while 
to  talk  logic  ?  Would  he  not  merely  add  to  her  perplexity 
by  speaking  his  thought  ?  Then,  looking  at  her,  he  realised 
that  though  she  had  fenced  with  herself,  she  did  not  desire 
to  be  fenced  with  by  him ;  and  he  told  her  what  was  in  his 
mind. 

She  listened  with  her  eyes  upon  his  face ;  the  interest  in 
them  grew,  but  the  trouble  did  not  die.  How  should  it, 
when  he  gave  her,  not  comfort,  but  sincerity  ? 

"You  must  just  come  back  to  what  you  call  the  ordinary 
things,"  he  ended;  "there's  nothing  else.  You  must  just 
come  back  to  the  argument  that  man  is  higher  than  the 
brutes,  and  that  you  must  sacrifice  the  lower  for  the  good 
of  the  higher." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  she  said.  "I  say  that  to  myself  every 

night — after  my  prayers.  And  yet "  David  sat  silent 

for  a  moment,  then  rose.  "  I  see  you  have  nothing  more  to 
say,"  she  said.  Her  tone  was  almost  resentful. 

"Nothing  that  will  be  any  good  to  you.  I  don't  know 
that  there's  anything  that  can  be  said  in  justification  of 
these  things,  except  expediency.  It's  expedient,  of  course, 
that  people  should  suffer  as  little  as  possible — and  know 
as  much " 

She  held  out  her  hand.  "Thank  you  for  letting  me  come 
in,  and  for  letting  me  bother  you." 

When  she  had  gone  Gale  said  to  himself,  "She  asked 
me  for  bread,  and  I  have  given  her  a  stone.  And  it's  the 
only  time  she  has  ever  asked  me  for  anything;  the  only 
time  she  ever  will." 

David,  on  her  way  to  Manchester  Square,  was  much  of 
Gale's  opinion.  She  was  regretting  her  visit;  regretting 


206  PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

that  she  had  let  this  man,  whom,  after  all,  she  knew  so 
little,  look  into  the  secret  places  of  her  heart.  She  had 
acted  on  impulse.  "And  impulse,"  she  said  to  herself,  "is 
sure  to  lead  one  wrong."  If  he  had  said  anything  that 
would  give  her  a  surer  foundation  for  her  faith,  it  would 
have  been  different;  but  he  had  given  her  nothing — noth- 
ing !  He  had,  indeed,  but  added  to  her  uncertainty.  Well, 
one  thing  was  sure :  at  home,  in  the  nursery,  Yi  was  waiting 
for  her,  looking  for  her. 
She  hastened  her  steps. 


CHAPTER  XXXI1 

IT  was  soon  after  David's  incursion  into  Gale's  house  and 
life  that  Cranley-Chance  brought  out  his  great  book, 
The  Future  of  Man.  The  Press  fell  down  and,  in  glowing 
reviews,  worshipped  it ;  the  scientific  world  patted  it  on  the 
back;  the  semi-scientific  public  read  it  with  an  admiration 
evoked  partly  by  the  gifts  of  the  author,  and  partly  by  the 
readers'  consciousness  that  they  were  capable  of  appreci- 
ating the  profundity  of  his  thought,  the  brilliance  of  his 
theories,  the  width  of  his  knowledge. 

The  book,  indeed,  was  written  to  kindle  the  popular 
imagination;  it  was  an  appeal  to  the  public  spirit  to  support 
with  the  public  funds  the  work,  practical  and  speculative, 
of  science.  Cranley-Chance  was,  in  science,  a  cosmopolitan ; 
he  was  acquainted  with  it  in  all  its  branches,  was  an  expert 
in  more  than  one;  and  he  summed  up  the  achievements 
of  its  different  activities  in  able  pages.  On  questions  of 
ascertained  facts  he  was  an  authority;  in  the  theories  by 
which  he  accounted  for  those  facts,  in  the  deductions  which 
he  drew  from  them,  he  was  not,  great  man  though  he  was, 
quite  great  enough  to  be,  in  all  respects,  entirely  logical. 
Starting  with  the  assumption  that  man's  knowledge  has 
become  so  complete  that  it  is  possible  to  establish  a  theory 
of  evolution  of  the  cosmos,  with  special  detail  in  regard  to 
the  history  of  the  earth  and  the  development  of  man  from 
animal  ancestry,  he  was  nevertheless  unable  to  lift  that 

lApp.   IS. 
207 


208  PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

theory  altogether  above  the  level  of  contradictory  state- 
ments. 

To  Cameron,  to  whom  the  period  assigned  for  the  course 
of  evolution  by  Chance  and  his  peers  was  but  as  a  day  in  the 
aeons  of  sublime  unfoldment,  the  contradictions  seemed  as 
inevitable  as  they  were  obvious.  To  Gale,  reading  the  book 
without  opposing  theories  of  his  own,  but  with  a  mind 
equally  keen  in  connecting  the  links  of  an  argument  and 
detecting  its  flaws,  they  were  disturbingly  apparent.  To 
the  mental  observation  of  Percy  Burdon  they  were  not 
visible.  So  long  as  he  remained  at  Langborough  in  the 
company  of  his  Polly,  he  discoursed  on  the  interest,  the 
ability,  and  the  acute  reasoning  of  the  book  to  his  and  her 
unblemished  satisfaction;  for  Polly  was  one  of  the  women 
who  take  "an  intelligent  interest"  in  the  pursuits  of  the 
men  with  whom  they  are  associated. 

But  it  happened  that  Polly  and  Polly's  mother  came  to 
London  on  a  week's  trousseau  campaign;  and  during  that 
week  Percy  twice  made  an  excuse  to  come  up  by  the  after- 
noon train  and  remain  in  town  till  the  next  morning.  On 
the  first  of  these  occasions  he  took  Polly  and  Mrs.  Thomp- 
son to  the  theatre;  on  the  second,  Polly  being  engaged  with 
a  godfather,  he  dined  with  Cameron  and  Gale  at  Gale's 
house. 

It  was  there  that  his  enthusiasm  over  the  book  written 
.by  David's  husband  was,  if  not  dauted,  somewhat  damped. 
Old  Cameron  was  a  crank,  of  course,  and  would  be  ready 
to  find  fault  with  every  mortal  thing  from  a  theory  to  an 
institution.  But  Gale,  well 

"We  think  so  much  alike  on  most  things,  you  know," 
said  Percy,  "that  I — I'm  staggered  to  find  you  don't  agree 
with  me  about  this." 

"But  I  do  agree  with  you;  old  chap,  up  to  a  certain 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS  209 

point.  The  book's  clever,  and  interesting,  and  plausible. 
But  it  ain't  logic — in  its  main  contention." 

"Well,  of  course,  you're  a  cleverer  man  than  I  am " 

"Don't  mention  it,"  said  Gale. 

"But  I'm  blowed  if  I  see  what  you  mean." 

"Well,  he  begins  by  saying  that  the  modern  scientific 
definition  of  Nature  includes  the  whole  cosmos,  and  man 
as  part  of  it." 

"So  it  does." 

"Yes,  so  it  does.  I  don't  suppose  even  Mr.  Cameron 
wants  to  dispute  that." 

"When  you  deal  with  the  cosmos,"  said  Cameron,  "you 
can't  very  well  leave  anything  outside." 

"Good.  But  if  man  is  a  being  resulting  from  and  driven 
by  what  Chance  describes  as  the  one  great  nexus  of  mechan- 
ism which  we  call  Nature,  how  can  he  defy  the  laws  of  that 
mechanism?  Even  if  he  forms  a  new  departure  in  Nature's 
scheme,  he  is  nevertheless  still  not  rebellious,  but  obedient, 
to  that  scheme." 

"What  I  want  to  know,"  broke  in  Cameron,  "is  what  he 
means  by  spiritual  emancipation.  I  know  what  I  mean  by 
it  myself,  but  seeing  that  he  admits  no  factor  other  than 
matter  as  he  understands  matter,  what  does  he  mean?" 

"Oh,  come,"  said  Percy.  "I  didn't  write  the  book,  you 
know." 

"No,"  said  Gale,  "but  you  sort  of  went  sponsor  for  its 
logic;  and  I  don't  think  the  reasoning  is  satisfactory.  He 
says  that  the  law  of  Natural  Selection  favoured  the  increase 
of  brain  in  a  large  ape  and  so  man  was  formed.  Well,  take 
it  or  leave  it ;  it's  a  theory,  and  the  accepted  scientific  one. 
But  I  object  to  the  assumption  that  man,  as  soon  as  he  be- 
comes man,  ceases  to  be  part  of  Nature,  is  a  rebel  to  Nature. 
Jf  he  is  the  product  of  an  orderly  process  how  can  he,  at 


210  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

any  point  in  that  process,  dissociate  himself  from  it  and 
start  a  revolutionary  process  of  his  own  ?  The  notions  don't 
seem  to  me  to  hang  together." 

"Unless,"  said  Cameron,  "you  postulate  in  what  Chance 
calls  the  living  matter  which  has  given  rise  to  man,  an 
inherent  factor,  originally  latent,  and  developing  in  the 
course  of  his  evolution ;  a  factor  either  opposed  or  superior 
to  Nature — or  both ;  a  factor  in  any  case  necessarily  super- 
natural." 

"He  doesn't  admit  the  supernatural,"  said  Burdon.  "He 
distinctly  says  so." 

"Precisely,"  agreed  Gale,  "which  is  why " 

"Well,  leave  that  for  a  moment,"  broke  in  Burdon.  "His 
main  point  is — however  he  gets  to  it — that  the  future  of 
man  means  the  conquest  of  Nature,  and  that  therefore  to 
return  to  Nature,  as  is  advocated  by  certain  schools  of  to- 
day, to  be  her  slave  again  instead  of  her  master,  is  unreason- 
able. I  must  say,"  said  Percy,  raising  his  wine-glass  be- 
tween his  eye  and  the  light,  "I  think  there's  something 
in  it." 

"If  you  assume  that  anarchy  is  to  supplant  evolution, 
and  that  the  future  of  the  universe  is  to  be  worked  out  by 
the  frustration  of  Nature's  laws,  there's  a  deal  more  in  it," 
said  Cameron,  "than  is  seen  by  you,  Mr.  Burdon,  or  even 
by  Professor  Cranley-Chance." 

"There  are  people  who  seem  to  think,"  observed  Gale, 
"that  going  back  to  nature  means  living  in  a  cave  without 
your  clothes  on.  You  might  as  well  say  it  meant  going 
back  to  the  Miocene  period.  Nature  to-day  has  other  coun- 
sels than  primitive  Nature  gave  to  primitive  man,  and  to  go 
back  to  Nature  means  to  go  to  the  Nature  of  to-day." 

"Well,  I  should  say  that  civilisation  is  against  Nature/' 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  211 

said  Burden,  "and  it  would  be  absurd  to  abandon  civilisa- 
tion." 

"And  I  should  say,"  answered  Cameron,  "that  it  is  one 
of  Nature's  processes,  as  relentless,  in  its  superficial  aspect, 
as  the  process  of  natural  selection." 

"And  what  about  disease?" 

"It  is  the  first  result  of  man's  rebellion  against  Nature." 

"You  admit,  then,  that  he  rebels." 

"Certainly,  but  I  deny  that  rebellion  is  the  way  of 
progress." 

"All  the  same,"  said  Burdon,  "I  feel  sure  that  Chance  is 
right.  Having  rebelled  against  Nature,  we  must  master 
her  secrets  and — and  resources,  and  progress  by  means  of 
science." 

"All  disease  cured  by  sera,"  said  Gale.  "I  don't  know 
that  I'm  prepared  to  swallow  the  serum  doctrine  whole." 

"You  can't  test  it  properly,  as  things  are.  You  can't 
really  test  any  scientific  theory  or  pursue  any  discovery. 
Chance  says " 

"I  know,"  Gale  broke  in.  "He  advocates  the  support  of 
scientific  research  by  the  community — that  is  to  say,  the 
public  funds." 

"And  I'm  with  him,"  said  Cameron,  "so  long  as  the 
research  is  strictly  scientific,  so  long,  that  is  to  say,  as  the 
means  employed  are  legitimate." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  legitimate,"  eaid  Percy. 

"I  mean  such  means  as,  while  advancing  his  material 
knowledge*,  do  not  delay  his  ethical  development." 

"I  don't  see  what  ethical  development  has  to  do  with 
science." 

"Maybe  not.  You  are  not  the  only  one  who  seeks  to 
put  asunder  things  which  are  fundamentally  joined.  But 


PRIESTS   OF    PROGRESS 

I  tell  you  it  can't  be  done.  The  two  must  grow  together, 
or  man  falls  back  and  loses  ground.  If  you  look  back " 

Cameron's  manner,  dry  hitherto,  became,  as  he  went  on 
speaking,  more  and  more  animated ;  into  his  voice  came  the 
Scotch  intonation,  into  his  speech  the  Scotch  accent;  his 
eyes  grew  keener.  Gale,  looking  at  him,  smiled. 

"If  you  could  look  back,"  Cameron  said,  "you  would 
see  that  nation  after  nation,  race  after  race,  has  risen  to  a 
certain  pinnacle  of  knowledge,  attained  a  certain  power, 
and  then — perished.  Certain  evidences  of  this  past  great- 
ness remain;  more  and  more  are  being  discovered." 

"By  scientific  exploration,"  put  in  Burdon. 

"Quite  so;  by  legitimate  and  praiseworthy  scientific 
work.  There  was  a  civilisation  before  our  own,  immensely 
greater  than  our  own;  the  men  of  that  civilisation  knew,  in 
some  directions,  immensely  more  than  the  men  of  ours; 
they  had  under  their  control  forces  of  Nature  which  we 
have  not  yet  discovered,  and  forces  which,  having  discov- 
ered, we  do  not  fully  understand  how  to  use.  But  AVC  stand 
on  the  brink  of  a  vaster  knowledge,  and  we  shall  know  what 
they  knew ;  for  the  knowledge  that  they  had  is  the  heritage 
of  all  races.  But  we  shall  perish,  too,  as  they  perished,  if 
that  knowledge  is  used  for  selfishness;  if  our  leaders  seek, 
as  their  did,  to  get  power  and  knowledge  at  the  expense  of 
morality ;  above  all,  if  they  succeed,  as  the  past  leaders  suc- 
ceeded, in  creating  a  dominant  hierarchy,  mighty  in  knowl- 
edge, exploiting  the  weak  and  the  many  in  the  service  of  the 
powerful  and  the  few.  Cranley-Chance  speaks  of  spiritual 
emancipation.  I  don't  know  how  he  defines  spirit.  I  define 
it  as  that  component  part  of  man's  being  which  determines 
his  place  in  Nature.  The  races  have  perished  because  their 
leaders  have  put  that  spirit  in  thrall,  because  their  love  of 
knowledge  has  turned  to  lust,  because,  ceasing  to  woo 


PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

Nature,  they  have  outraged  her.  It  is  in  the  ethical  sense 
that  the  spirit  of  man  is  made  manifest :  man's  progress  is 
measured  by  his  ethical  development.  I  think,  even,  you 
will  find  that  it  is  by  that  standard  that  the  world  estimates 
the  nations." 

"I  don't  know  whether  it  is  so  absolutely,"  said  Gale. 
"You  see,  intellectual  and  ethical  development  generally 
go  together." 

"Always,  up  to  a  point.  Then,  if  they  are  separated,  if 
ethics  are  sacrificed  to  the  desire  for  knowledge,  to  intel- 
lectual curiosity — for  intellectual  aspiration,  divorced  from 
ethics,  loses  the  element  of  reverence,  of  humility,  becomes 
curiosity; — if  ethics  are  sacrificed,  I  say,  then  comes  de- 
generacy; the  decline,  brilliant  in  achievement  always  in 
its  first  stages,  of  the  nation  or  the  race.  The  cosmic  law 
is  immutable ;  and  those  who  seek  to  break  it,  who  seek  by 
violence,  cruelty,  by  the  dark  path  instead  of  the  path  of 
light,  to  gain  knowledge,  power,  things  good  in  themselves 
and  desirable,  will  be  by  that  law  inevitably  broken." 

There  was  a  short  silence;  then  Percy,  who  did  not  feel 
at  home  in  the  atmosphere  which  Cameron  had  created, 
filled  up  his  glass,  sipped  its  contents,  and,  recovering  him- 
self with  the  sip,  said,  "I  suppose  what  you're  chiefly  down 
upon  is  the  vivisection  business?" 

"Ethically,  yes;  scientifically  I  object  to  arguing  from 
animals  to  man,  and  to  the  whole  system  of  attempting  to 
destroy  the  poisons  of  disease  by  pouring  in  more  poison. 
Of  course,  we  all  know  you  can  render  yourself  immune  or 
partially  immune  to  almost  anything.  The  morphia  maniac 
can  take  doses  of  morphia  that  would  kill  the  ordinary  man, 
and  the  drunkard  can  take  at  a  sitting  an  amount  of  alcohol 
that  would  poison  the  sober  man  outright.  But  the  drunk- 
ard and  the  drug-taker  are  ruining — quite  apart  from  their 


PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

individual  bodies — the  health  and  strength  of  their  de- 
scendants; and  the  sera  and  the  vaccines  are  lowering  the 
vitality  of  the  race." 

Burdon  shook  his  head.  "Well,  I  don't  know.  I  have 
great  faith  in  science,  and  all  the  foremost  men  of  the  day 
are  in  favour  of  these  methods." 

"The  foremost  men  of  many  other  days,"  said  Cameron, 
"have  made  mistakes." 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

THROUGHOUT  the  summer  David  and  Gale  met  but 
once  again.  Gale  was  calling  on  Mrs.  Lowther,  who 
was  Lady  Lowther  now,  the  doctor's  baronetcy  having  been 
amongst  the  last  Birthday  Honours.  He  went  oftener  to 
see  her  since  David  had  asked  him  to  go,  and  during  one 
of  his  calls  David  came  in. 

She  greeted  him  pleasantly,  in  what  he  called  her  Mrs. 
Cranley-Chance  manner,  the  manner  she  had  assumed  to 
him  since  her  marriage ;  the  intimate  note  which  had  crept 
into  her  relations  with  Gale  previous  to  the  ill-fated  tea- 
party,  and  which  had  shown  itself  again  during  the  inter- 
view in  Montagu  Street,  had  altogether  disappeared.  She 
mad  no  reference  to  that  interview ;  nearly  two  months  ago 
it  was  now ;  and  Gale  received  the  impression  that  she  did 
not  wish  him  to  speak  of  it  before  her  mother. 

When  he  took  his  leave  she  followed  him  out  of  the  room 
on  to  the  landing. 

"I  wanted  to  tell  you,"  she  said,  "that  I've  made  up  my 
mind,  and  that  I've  chosen — Vi." 

The  look  in  her  eyes  was  almost  a  challenge,  but  Gale 
was  in  no  way  disposed  to  take  it  up.  Was  he  not  of  her 
way  of  thinking?  and  was  he  not  glad  to  know  that  she  was 
no  longer  disturbed  by  doubts  ? 

"I'm  glad  your  mind  is  at  rest,"  he  said,  and  answered 
her  look  gravely. 

He  was  very  glad,  he  told  himself  as  he  went  down  tbe 

215 


216  PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS 

street.  The  memory  of  her  face  as  she  had  asked  him  for 
help  had  been  with  him  often,  and  he  had  been  distressed 
to  think  that  he  had  had  no  help  to  give.  Now  it  was  all 
right;  yes,  all  right,  in  spite  of  Cameron.  "Are  ye  not 
of  more  value  than  many  sparrows?"  quoted  Gale  to  him- 
self; forgetting — or  ignoring — that  the  teaching  of  the 
parable  is  not  that  the  sparrows  should  be  sacrificed  to 
man,  but  that  man  should  learn  of  the  sparrows  to  be  less 
eager  in  the  pursuit  of  his  own  material  welfare. 

He,  like  David,  had  made  up  his  mind.  Ambition  pointed 
to  the  orthodox  path ;  and  as  for  thinking  things  out — well, 
he  had  very  little  time  to  think.  It  may  be  that  that  time 
was  purposely,  though  perhaps  not  consciously,  curtailed; 
that  he  worked,  that  summer,  unusually  hard  because 
thought  was  unwelcome.  In  any  case,  he  was  unremittingly 
busy,  utilising  what  might  have  been  his  leisure  in  studying 
the  diseases  of  childhood  as  childhood  exists  in  the  slums. 

He  learned  much ;  more  than  he  was,  at  the  time,  aware 
of.  He  learned  much  in  those  swift  work-laden  days,  be- 
cause he  studied,  side  by  side  with  children's  diseases,  child- 
hood ;  side  by  side  with  childhood,  environment ;  side  by  side 
with  both,  the  effects  of  individual  temperament.  Un- 
consciously but  surely,  his  physiological  conclusions,  his 
diagnostic  observation,  were  tempered,  broadened,  modified, 
by  consideration  of  the  psychological  element  which,  con- 
stantly ignored  by  physiologists,  is  inseparably  connected 
with  physiology. 

He  became  cognisant,  too,  not  by  direct  investigation,  but 
by  the  unanalysed  daily  experience,  the  casual  observation, 
by  means  of  which  the  facts  of  life  are  borne  in  upon  most 
of  us,  of  many  of  the  causes  of  disease ;  of  the  seeds  of  those 
evils  which  the  leaders  of  his  profession  were  attempting 
to  combat  by  studying  the  rottenness  of  the  full-formed 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  217 

fruit.  He  saw  the  monster  Want,  hydra-headed,  each  head 
a  vice  or  a  disease,  sucking  away  the  future  of  the  race;  he 
saw  dry-breasted  women,  half-starved  and  over-worked, 
feeding  white  babies,  flabby  or  thin,  on  food  unfitted,  even 
if  pure,  for  infant  stomachs,  and  largely  made  up,  more- 
over, of  that  adulteration  which  a  great  statesman  has  de- 
clared to  be  one  of  the  factors  in  the  competitive  system; 
he  saw — and  smelt — rooms,  alleys,  districts  whose  foul  at- 
mosphere was  charged  with  death  rather  than  vitality.  And 
seeing  all  this,  not  of  set  purpose,  but  inevitably,  thought 
refused  to  be  stifled,  waxed  clamorous,  potent,  argumenta- 
tive, sequential. 

What  was  medical  science,  to  which  the  vast  bulk  of  the 
public  bowed  in  unquestioning  faith  and  reverent  admira- 
tion, doing  for  all  these  people?  One  or  two  of  its  prom- 
inent men,  to  be  sure,  had  lately  pronounced  against  alcohol 
and  urged  the  necessity  for  hygiene,  had  sat  on  boards  and 
presided  at  committees :  but  were  there  any  who  had  gone 
to  the  root  of  the  matter,  so  deep  down  as  not  to  mistake 
results  for  causes;  to  whom  medical  inspection  was  not 
more  important  than  improved  conditions ;  the  coping  with 
disease  not  more  interesting  than  the  destruction  of  its  gene- 
sis? He  thought  of  the  laboratories  and  their  work;  labora- 
tories all  over  the  world — in  America,  France,  Austria, 
Russia,  England — where  men  toiled,  immensely  patient, 
indefatigably  keen,  thinking  out,  concocting,  perfecting, 
sera  and  sera  and  still  more  sera,  till  immunity  should  be 
procured  against  all  disease.  Was  it  that  way  salvation  lay  ? 
Was  it  so  those  tired  women  were  to  rest?  those  children, 
tubercular,  rickety,  anaemic,  syphilitic,  to  capture  health? 
Immunity !  "Great  God !"  cried  the  driven  mind  of  Sidney 
Gale,  "have  they  not  acquired  immunity  from  much  that 
would  kill  the  average  healthy  man?  and  does  it  profit 


218  PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

them?  Immunity  from  semi-starvation — many  of  them 
living  on  when  a  normal  man  would  die;  immunity  from 
foul  air,  in  which,  for  more  than  a  few  minutes,  I  could 
not  breathe ;  immunity  from  dirt.  And  what  do  they  gain  ? 
Immunity  in  their  case  is  paid  for  by  degeneracy." 

His  mind,  tentative  still,  but  persistent,  questioned :  "  Is 
immunity,  such  as  modern  methods  aim  at,  ever  purchased 
at  a  lower  price  ?" 

He  turned  to  surer  ground.  "Thank  goodness!"  he 
thought,  "for  the  rank  and  file  of  the  profession,  who  harm 
neither  man  nor  beast;  who  go  on  steadily,  day  by  day, 
doing  what  good  they  can,  bringing  the  help  and  hope  that 
a  doctor  who  is  worth  his  salt — and  hasn't  mistaken  his 
calling — always  brings.  Thank  goodness!"  he  had  almost 
added,  "that  I  am  still  of  the  rank  and  file !"  But  ambition, 
slumbering  awhile,  roused  herself  now  and  spoke.  In  the 
rank  and  file,  she  told  Gale,  he  could  not  remain.  Did  he 
not  aspire,  intend,  to  be  a  leader  ?  And  those  who  rise,  rise 
not  by  rebellion,  by  independence  of  thought  and  action, 
but  by  obedience  to  the  tactics  and  the  policy  of  the  men  in 
the  front  ranks.  Nay,  even  where  he  stood  now  he  was  not 
on  neutral  ground ;  for  he  could  not  get  away  from  the  new 
treatment,  the  fashionable  remedies,  the  modern  methods; 
could  not  get  away  from  serumtherapy  and  organotherapy ; 
and  must  either  accept  or  refuse  them.  Deep  within  him 
lurked  doubt  of  the  animal  drugs,  the  animal  poisons ;  but 
he  would  not  recognise  the  doubt;  and  when  it  took  vehe- 
ment shape,  ambition  pointed  to  the  diplomatic  path.  Win 
your  way  and  make  your  name,  she  counselled,  ere  you, 
hardly  a  deacon  yet,  dare  to  attack  the  priesthood.  Climb, 
she  urged,  by  the  ladder  you  don't  believe  in,  in  order  from 
a  commanding  height  to  proclaim  the  truth. 

Gale  frowned  mentally,  stopped  his  ears  to  the  contend- 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS  219 

ing  voices,  consigned  doubt  to  the  devil,  and  plunged  deeper 
into  work  than  ever;  exercising  his  brain  so  persistently 
with  the  immediate  problems  of  his  cases,  that  he  was  too 
tired  to  consider  the  deeper  ones  which  underlay  cases  and 
treatment  alike.  The  summer  was  an  unusually  hot  one, 
and  in  the  slums  where  Gale  piled  the  Ossa  of  almost  hon- 
orary labour  on  the  Pelion  of  his  now  heavy  consulting 
practice,  smells  were  rife.  His  splendid  health  was  proof 
against  heat,  smells,  and  fatigue ;  he  toiled  on,  proud  of  his 
own  strength,  immersed  in  the  interest  of  professional  ex- 
perience. Nevertheless,  when  August  drew  to  a  close,  he 
became  aware  that  his  strength  was  flagging,  his  interest 
less  keen,  that  he  needed  respite,  leisure,  rest;  and,  with 
the  practical  wisdom  which  ran  side  by  side  with  his  imag- 
inative capacity,  he  decided  to  strike  work  and  take  a  three 
weeks'  holiday  in  Switzerland. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

UP  amongst  the  mountains  Gale  put  his  perplexities  far 
from  him.  He  found  it  comparatively  easy,  in  new 
surroundings,  to  escape  from  the  problems  which  pursued 
him  at  home.  Ordinary  life  seemed  far  away,  half  unreal, 
hardly  important.  After  the  fashion  of  the  true  holiday 
maker,  he  threw  himself  with  zest  into  matters  of  the  mo- 
ment. He  walked,  he  played  tennis,  he  danced,  he  even 
flirted ;  or  it  would  be  truer,  perhaps,  to  say,  allowed  him- 
self to  be  flirted  with.  The  girls  and  women  who,  by  way  of 
a  change,  were  amusing  themselves  abroad  instead  of  amus- 
ing themselves  at  home,  were  all  disposed  to  be  kind  to  Gale, 
some  divining  the  chivalry  which  was  inherent  in  his  na- 
ture, others  realising  that,  though  quick  to  respond,  he  was 
difficult  to  win,  and  finding  attraction  in  the  difficulty. 

He  enjoyed  it  all;  the  dancing — and  Gale's  dancing,  it 
must  be  owned,  was  more  vigorous  than  artistic — the  play- 
ing at  love,  the  games,  at  which  he  always  wanted  to  win ; 
not  least,  the  long  climbing  walks  with  Percy  Burdon.  For 
after  he  had  been  a  few  days  at  Caux,  he  saw,  on  coming 
down  to  dinner,  Percy  and  his  bride  seated  at  a  table  not 
far  from  his  own.  Gale  was  afraid  at  first  that  his  presence 
in  the  hotel  would  seem  to  Percy  like  an  intrusion  on  the 
privacy  of  the  honeymoon;  but  Percy  soon  reassured  him. 
He  was  a  man  who  liked  an  audience,  and  his  happiness 
was  enhanced  by  the  fact  that  he  could  parade  it,  together 
with  his  Polly's  excellences  and  beauty,  before  his  friend. 

220 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS 

"I  feel  rather  a  brute,  you  know,"  he  remarked  to  his 
wife,  "flaunting  our  good  fortune  before  old  Sidney's  eyes. 
I'm  afraid  I  rub  it  in  sometimes  too  much;  and  being — 
well,  as  he  is,  you  know,  he's  bound  to  feel  rather  envious 
and  forlorn." 

"I  dare  say  Mr.  Gale  could  have  had  a  wife  if  he'd 
wanted^one,"  answered  Polly.  "I'm  not  sure  he  couldn't 
find  one  here." 

"Ah,  but  the  right  one?"  said  Percy.  In  his  mind  was 
the  old  doubt  as  to  whether  he  had  cheated  Gale  of  his 
happiness. 

"I  can't  say  I  think  he  looks  like  a  disappointed  man," 
observed  Polly. 

"You  don't?" 

"Certainly  not." 

"Well,  no,  perhaps  not;  perhaps  you're  right." 

"Everybody  doesn't  want  to  be  married,  you  know." 

"Poor,  poor  fools!"  said  Percy. 

The  walks  that  the  two  friends  took  sometimes  kept  the 
husband  longer  away  from  his  wife  than  he  cared  to  be ;  but 
Sidney  had  never  lost  his  charm  for  Burdon,  who  was  too 
glad  of  the  chance  of  his  companionship  to  forego  the 
expeditions  they  made  together.  Mrs.  Polly  was  good- 
natured,  too,  and  urged  him  to  go ;  she  was  popular  in  the 
hotel,  and  managed  to  amuse  herself  pretty  well  in  his 
absence. 

Gale,  on  his  side,  was  well  suited  with  Percy  as  a  com- 
panion. For  Percy  was  a  man  you  could  talk  with  if  you 
wanted  to,  and  if  you  didn't,  all  you  had  to  say  was,  "Hang 
it,  old  chap,  stop  jawing  for  a  bit.  I  want  to  be  quiet." 

Gale  often  wanted  to  be  quiet  when  he  got  high  up,  into 
the  snow  region ;  to  be  quiet,  and  let  the  white  stillness  sink 
into  him,  JJo  weary  questions  came  to  vex  him  in  those 


222  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

pauses ;  the  world  and  its  complexities  were  too  far  away ; 
in  the  keen,  pure  air,  with  the  snow  peaks  all  about  him, 
success  and  failure  seemed  not  to  matter.  But  sometimes, 
in  his  spaces  of  silence,  Gale  thought  of  David  Cranley- 
Chance ;  of  her  troubled  face,  of  her  suffering  motherhood, 
of  her  defiant  eyes  that  last  time  he  had  seen  her.  He  won- 
dered where  she  was;  in  England,  of  course,  for  she  never 
went  anywhere,  he  knew,  where  she  could  not  take  Vi.  The 
professor,  so  Burdon  had  stated,  was  abroad ;  but  Gale  was 
hardly  interested  in  the  professor  and  his  movements ;  only 
in  so  far  as  Percy's  statement  caused  him,  in  his  thought  of 
David,  to  picture  her  alone,  always  alone,  with  the  child 
whose  pain  she  could  not  ease. 

When  the  picture  grew  too  clear,  "Percy,  man,"  he  would 
say,  "why  on  earth  don't  you  say  something?"  and  Percy, 
only  too  pleased  to  be  released  from  the  bondage  of  silence, 
would  hold  forth  again. 

Burdon,  looking  back  upon  these  walks,  remembered 
them  as  being  amongst  the  many  joys  of  his  honeymoon; 
Gale  remembered  them  as  a  white  rest,  apart  somehow  from 
the  light-hearted  holiday-making  at  the  hotel ;  a  rest  which 
braced  and  fortified  him  in  his  after  struggle  in  the  wilder- 
ness. 

Sometimes  the  friends  spoke  of  that  other  friend  who,  on 
the  waves  of  circumstance,  as  it  seemed,  had  drifted  away 
from  them — Edgar  Hall.  Gale  was  going  to  see  him  on  his 
way  back. 

"I  thought  of  it,  too,"  said  Burdon;  "but  my  wife  was 
at  school  in  Paris  and  doesn't  care  for  the  place ;  so  we  shall 
go  right  through  from  Basle  to  Boulogne." 

It  was  generally  dusk  when  the  two  men  got  back  to  the 
hotel ;  Percy  filled  with  delight  at  the  sight  of  his  Polly  and 
the  warmth  of  her  welcome;  Gale  not  disinclined  for  fe- 


PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

male  society,  more  numerous,  though  less  devoted,  than  a 
single  Polly. 

Little  self-contained  worlds  are  soon  formed,  separate 
centres  of  joint  life  and  common  interests.  Gale,  like  most 
of  his  companions,  was,  after  a  few  days,  immersed  in  the 
life  of  the  Caux  Hotel,  in  its  politics,  its  projects,  its  news. 
During  his  walks  he  went  sometimes  so  far  afield  as  to  meet 
David;  and  sometimes,  when  he  was  alone  in  his  room, 
David  came  to  him;  otherwise  he  lived  altogether  in  the 
little  merry-making  world  about  him.  That  world  had  its 
great  events,  such  as  the  private  theatricals,  stage-managed 
and  coached  by  a  noted  professional ;  its  tragedies,  as  when 
Miss  Bonar-Brown,  pre-eminent  at  tennis,  hurt  her  right 
hand  the  day  before  the  great  match  with  the  Vevey  Club ; 
its  Daily  Mail,  not  printed  on  paper,  but  circulated  by 
word  of  mouth.  The  Mail  told  the  news  and  the  scandal, 
not  only  of  Caux,  but  of  Territet,  Montreux,  of  all  places 
in  the  neighbourhood  where  news  could  be  generated  and 
scandal  manufactured.  Usually  this  intangible  publication 
was  flippantly  scandalous  or  suavely  censorious;  occasion- 
ally it  was  malevolent;  now  and  again,  melodramatic,  as 
when  it  thrilled  its  supporters  by  an  account  of  the  dog, 
reputed  mad,  who  had  bitten  two  Englishmen  at  Lea 
Avants.  One  had  been  bitten  in  the  leg,  through  trousers 
of  tolerable  thickness ;  the  other,  on  his  bare  hand ;  and  one 
had  started  off  at  once  for  Paris  to  undergo  the  Pasteur 
treatment,  while  the  other  had  sucked  his  wound  and  re- 
mained at  Les  Avants. 

"How  difficult  to  suck  a  wound  in  your  leg,"  said  some- 
body. 

"Especially  if  you're  stout,"  said  another. 

"But  he  didn't,"  corrected  the  Special  Correspondent. 


PRIESTS  OF   PROGRESS 

"If  s  the  leg  one  that's  gone  to  Paris.  The  one  who  did  the 
sucking  business  is  the  one  who  was  bitten  in  the  hand." 

"Oh!"  This  was  in  chorus,  and  then  came  solos,  treble 
and  bass:  "How  rash!"  "How  foolish!"  "How  fool- 
hardy!" "Tempting  Providence!" 

"He  didn't  believe  the  dog  was  mad,  you  see,"  said  the 
Special  Correspondent. 

"And  was  it?" 

"Ifs  been  killed,"  said  another  member  of  the  staff,  a 
lady  who  contributed  paragraphs. 

"And  opinions  are  divided,"  said  the  Special  Corre- 
spondent. 

"Well,  I'm  glad  of  it,"  said  Miss  Bonar-Brown,  looking 
at  her  finger-stall,  and  reflecting  that  there  was  nothing 
so  bad  but  that  it  might  have  been  worse.  "Supposing  it 
had  come  up  here." 

And  then  there  was  another  chorus,  the  leit-motif  of 
which  was,  "How  dreadful !" 

Two  days  later  Gale  left  the  heights — and  depths — of 
the  Grand  Hotel  world,  and  was  whirled  through  the 
darkness  to  Paris. 

He  had  come  to  Paris  for  the  express  purpose  of  seeing 
Edgar  Hall ;  he  had  looked  forward  to  meeting  him  again ; 
yet,  as  he  puzzled  out  his  way  to  the  Pasteur  Institute, 
something  that  was  almost  like  nervousness  began  to  creep 
in  upon  him. 

It  was  some  years  now  since  he  and  Hall  had  met,  and 
previously  to  their  last  interview  their  meetings  had  been 
only  occasional  and  short;  and  "Chaps  change,"  thought 

Gale.  Besides They  had  been  intimate,  of  course,  he 

and  Hall,  in  the  old  student  days,  and  in  the  days  when 
they  had  first  paddled,  so  to  speak,  in  the  ocean  of  pro- 
fessional practice ;  he  and  Hall  and  Percy  had  formed  a  trio 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS  225 

in  friendship  which  had  caused  them  to  be  commonly 
spoken  of  amongst  their,  comrades  as  "the  triangle."  But 
had  the  intimacy  been  more  than  a  surface  one  ?  or  had  they 
been,  he  and  Hall,  not  so  much  portions  of  a  single  chain, 
inevitably  adhering  one  to  the  other,  as  two  chains  of  differ- 
ent metals,  joined  by  the  connecting  link  of  Percy  Burdon  ? 
And  besides,  after  all  these  years  of  separation 

"Hot !"  said  Gale  to  himself.  "Percy  and  I  are  different, 
yet  we're  still  pals,  though  we  don't  see  much  of  each  other ; 
and  why  shouldn't  it  be  the  same  with  Hall  ?"  Yet,  at  the 
same  time,  he  could  not  help  wishing  he  had  written  to  Hall 
to  say  he  was  coming. 

His  acquaintance  with  Paris  was  but  slight,  the  acquain- 
tance, that  is  to  say,  of  the  passing  tourist,  so  that  he  had 
to  ask  his  way  many  times  in  order  to  reach  his  destination ; 
but  finally  he  found  himself  in  the  Boulevard  Pasteur,  and 
then  soon  came  to  the  Rue  Dutot.  The  street  is  in  itself 
small  and  insignificant,  but  is  distinguished  in  that  it  con- 
tains two  monuments,  or  two  divisions  of  one  monument — 
the  original  Institut  Pasteur  and  the  opposite  building  of 
the  Chimie  Biologique — to  the  memory  of  a  Frenchman, 
who  is  one  of  the  most  revered  and  admired,  the  most  fa- 
mous and  widely  known  of  his  nation. 

Pasteur,  meeting  at  the  beginning  of  his  career  with  a 
measure  of  opposition,  incredulity,  and  contempt,  was  yet, 
while  he  still  lived,  a  prophet  in  his  own  country.  He  was 
born,  not  out  of  due  time,  but  in  the  very  era  when  the 
work  that  he  did  appealed  most  forcibly  to  the  minds  and 
emotions  of  his  fellow-men.  The  modern  fear  of  death  and 
shrinking  from  pain  were  on  the  increase ;  the  modern  spirit 
of  exhaustive  inquiry  was  awake  and  keen ;  the  modern  at- 
titude towards  physiology,  an  attitude  which  admits  no 


226  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

difference,  in  the  pursuit  of  knowledge,  between  insensible 
matter  and  sentient  organisms,  \vas  stiffening  itself  into  a 
principle.  Pasteur,  sigle-hearted,  with  ideals  which  were  of 
his  age  and  not  beyond  it ;  with  a  mind  acute  and  powerful, 
but  of  the  kind  which  views  particular  pursuits  apart  from, 
and  not  in  relation  to,  the  universe  as  a  whole,  achieved  in 
his  work  results  which  invited  and  received  the  homage  of 
his  time.  In  his  generation  he  was  supremely  wise ;  in  his 
lifetime  he  received  his  reward ;  he  still  sits  upon  a  throne. 
Yet  that  part  of  human  nature  ignored  of  physical  science 
may  ultimately  condemn  the  morality  of  his  methods;  the 
growing  experience  of  humanity  may  contravene  his  con- 
clusions; science  itself  may  happen  upon  that  principle  of 
unity  which  forbids  in  the  service  of  one  portion  of  the 
whole  the  violation  of  another.  Throned  idols  have  not 
always  a  lasting  divinity;  it  is  the  stoned  prophets  whose 
words  sound  on  through  the  ages. 

A  building  of  dark  red  brick,  with  plaster  grown  yellow ; 
four  windows  on  either  side  of  the  centre  door,  and  a  high 
steep  roof  broken  by  another  row  of  windows;  such  is  the 
Jnstitut  Pasteur.  It  stands  back  from  the  street,  divided 
from  it  by  a  strip  of  garden  wide  enough  to  admit  of  a 
carriage  drive. 

Up  the  drive  went  Sidney  Gale,  reverently ;  for  to  him, 
as  to  so  many,  the  Institute  was  a  temple  dedicated  to  the 
salvation  of  humanity. 

Yes,  Monsieur  Ahl  was  there,  in  the  Institue.  If 
Monsieur  would  wait  a  minute  or  two 

"Certainement,"  said  Monsieur,  thinking  how  lucky  it 
was  that  there  were  some  French  words  not  so  very  far 
removed  from  English  ones.  He  had  not  long  to  wait  in 
the  light  and  lofty  room:  presently  Hall  came  in;  Edgar 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS  227 

Hall, — Gale  knew  him  at  once — and  yet  a  stranger.  The 
man  who  entered  was  small,  below  the  middle  height; 
broad,  but  not  lofty,  of  brow;  with  a  pale  face  tapering 
towards  the  chin.  The  nose  was  pinched,  with  suddenly 
widening  nostrils;  the  lips  were  thin,  the  eyes  observant. 
The  expression  was  that  somewhat  absorbed  one  common 
to  men  the  force  of  whose  intellect,  the  current  of  whose 
interests,  is  compressed  into  a  channel  narrow  and  deep. 
It  was  the  expression  perhaps  that  had  changed  in  Gale's 
student  friend,  for  the  features  were  the  same,  as  was  also 
the  figure,  alert  and  spare;  but  it  seemed  to  Sidney  that 
the  whole  personality  had  altered,  and  also  that  that  per- 
sonality had  become  more  French  than  English. 

"Gale!  I  could  hardly  believe  my  eyes  when  your  card 
was  brought  me.  Sit  down,  please,  my  dear  fellow.  But 
why  didn't  you  write  to  say  you  were  coming?  I  would 
have  contrived,  or  done  my  best  to  contrive,  to  have  a  spare 
hour.  And  now  I  have  but  a  few  minutes." 

"So  busy,  eh  ?    Jove !  you  look  as  if  you  were  working." 

"I'm  working  very  hard.  This  is  the  place  to  give  a  man 
ideas;  and  the  place  to  work  them  out  in." 

"All  sorts  of  facilities,  I  suppose." 

"The  French  are  much  more  logical  than  the  English. 
If  they  found  an  institution,  they  provide  everything  to 
carry  on  the  work  for  which  the  institution  was  founded." 

"Well,  are  you  going  to  settle  down  here  altogether?" 

Gale  was  half  joking,  but  Hall's  answer  came  with  com- 
plete seriousness:  "I  hope  so." 

"Altogether?    Be  an  exile?" 

"Exile!"  Hall's  lip  curled  in  the  old  way  "A  cosmo- 
politan is  never  an  exile." 

"Always  seems  to  me  like  a  sort  of  Wandering  Jew." 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

"Just  the  contrary.  The  Wandering  Jew  was  never  at 
home;  the  cosmopolitan  always  is." 

"I'll  take  your  word  for  it.  And  so  you're  a  cosmo- 
politan?" 

"Science  is  cosmopolitan,  and  I'm  a  scientist." 

"I  see.    Well,  look  here,  you're  busy  now,  you  say " 

"So  sorry,"  murmured  Hall. 

"Come  and  dine  with  me  this  evening  and  we'll  have  a 
regular  good  old  gossip." 

"Excuse  me;  in  Paris,  /  am  host.  Meet  me  at  Frederic's, 
Quai  de  la  Monnaie,  at  seven-thirty.  I'll  ask  one  or  two 
men  you'll  be  interested  to  meet." 

"Awfully  good  of  you,  but  look  here,  don't  trouble  to 
ask  a  lot  of  other  fellows.  What  I'd  like " 

"Not  at  all,  not  at  all;  no  trouble.  I  should  like  you 
to  meet  them." 

Then,  in  a  twinkling,  as  it  seemed,  Gale  found  himself 
in  the  street  again.  "Because  I'm  on  a  holiday,  I  can't 
expect  all  the  other  chaps  not  to  be  busy,"  he  thought,  as 
he  went  back  towards  his  hotel.  "All  the  same,  I'd  like  to 
have  seen  through  the  place."  Disappointed  he  was  not, 
he  told  himself,  since  he  had  two  or  three  days  to  spend 
in  Paris,  and  he  could  see  through  the  Institute  to-morrow 
or  next  day.  But  Hall  was  changed  certainly.  Changed 
had  he,  though — or  simply  developed?  "He  was  always  a 
rum,  cool  sort  of  chap,  even  in  the  days  when  I  used  to  sit 
upon  him,"  reflected  Gale.  "Now,  by  Jove!  he's  inclined 
to  sit  upon  me.  Wonder  how  he  and  Percy  would  hit  it  off  ? 
Percy  was  always  thicker  with  him  than  I  was.  Wish  he 
hadn't  asked  those  Frenchies.  Such  a  bore  talking  their 
jabber." 

Yet  he  was  dimly  conscious  that  a  tete-a-tete  dinner  with 
Hall  might- not  be  altogether  so  enjoyable  as  he  had  picture^ 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS  229 

it  in  the  train  from  Geneva;  there  were  threads  dropped  in 
the  past,  not  to  be  picked  up  by  the  present  Edgar ;  perhaps, 
after  all,  the  presence  of  other  guests  was  not  entirely  to  be 
deplored. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

OF  the  half-dozen  men  whom  Edgar  Hall  presented  to 
Gale  that  evening,  five  were  well  known  in  Paris, 
and  the  names  of  three  were  familiar  to  Gale  through  the 
medium  of  medical  journals.  One  of  these  names  belonged 
to  a  German,  known  in  Paris,  as  in  London,  by  reputation, 
and  one  to  a  man  who  came  from  the  south  of.  France.  Gale 
himself  was  the  least  distinguished  man  of  the  party,  and 
Gale,  as  has  been  indicated,  was  not,  in  his  own  country, 
entirely  unknown.  The  least  distinguished  he  was  in  re- 
gard to  fame,  yet  his  face,  with  its  strong  vitality,  its  keen 
eyes,  and  its  frame  of  tawny  hair,  was  perhaps  the  most  ar- 
resting of  those  gathered  round  the  restaurant  table.  David 
Chance,  when  she  had  been  David  Lowther,  had  said  once 
that  Mr.  Gale  had  the  face  of  a  predestine;  and  it  is  true 
that  there  was  in  Gale's  face,  mingled  indescribably  with 
the  vividness  of  its  expression,  that  elusive  melancholy, 
often  to  be  observed  in  the  faces  of  those  destined  to  early 
death,  to  the  endurance  of  heroic  disasters,  or  to  the  silent 
tragedy  of  failure. 

At  first  the  conversation  was  not  general,  and  Hall,  see- 
ing that  his  guests  were  occupied  with  each  other,  spoke  to 
Gale  in  English. 

"By  the  way,"  he  said,  "who  do  you  think  is  under 
treatment  at  the  Institute  just  now?" 

"Never  was  good  at  guessing." 

"  Cranley-Chance." 

880 


PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS  231 

"Cranley-Chance?  By  Jove!  What  on  earth  has  hap- 
pened  to  him  ?" 

"He  was  bitten  by  a  dog  in  Switzerland,  it  seems.  He 
was  travelling  with  Carey — you  know  Carey?" 

"Sir  James  of  that  ilk?" 

"Yes;  and  they  were  both  bitten." 

"Not  at  Les  Avants,  by  any  chance?" 

"Yes,  it  was.    Chance  took  the  first  train  through." 

"Why,  I  was  quite  close  there,  and  heard  all  about  it. 
Fancy  it's  turning  out  to  be  those  two!  If  I'd  known, 
I'd  have  gone  down  and  seen  Carey.  He  stayed  on  where  he 
was,  I  hear." 

"Chance  says  he  came  to  the  Institute  partly  for  the 
example." 

"Good  old  Chance!    Was  he  badly  bitten?" 

Hall  shook  his  head.  "Not  he;  the  skin  wasn't  even 
broken.  I'm  not  sure,  if  I'd  been  him,  I  shouldn't  have 
followed  the  other  chap's  example  and  sucked  the  wound." 

"He  couldn't  do  that,"  said  Gale,  "if  there  wasn't  a 
wound  to  suck.  How's  he  going  on?" 

"Oh,  all  right;  the  thing's  taking  the  normal  course. 
It  makes  you  uncomfortable,  of  course,  for  a  time." 

Hall  turned  to  the  man  on  his  left,  and  Gale  was  left  to 
try  and  c°tch  scraps  of  the  talk  going  on  about  him. 

Presently  the  talk  became  general,  but  Gale,  whose  ears 
received  French  without  difficulty,  but  whose  tongue  was 
not  fully  master  of  it,  listened  at  first  considerably  more 
than  he  spoke;  listened  with  both  diffidence  and  interest, 
for  these  were  famous  men,  and  their  ideas  and  opinions 
carried  weight;  listened  till  interest  overpowered  diffidence, 
overpowered  the*  disabilities  of  speech  in  a  foreign  tongue, 
overpowered  all  but  the  imperative  necessity  of  saying  what 
was  in  his  mind.  But  this  stage  was  not  reached  till  the 


232  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

dinner  was  over,  and  coffee,  liqueurs,  and  cigars  had  taken 
its  place.  Gale  smoked  but  little  now.  He  found  that  to- 
bacco as  well  as  alcohol  interfered  with  the  steadiness  of  his 
hand  and  nerve,  and  had  sacrificed  both  to  the  perfection 
of  his  surgical  work.  At  home  he  smoked  one  after-dinner 
pipe ;  to-night  he  played  with  cigarettes  while  his  host  and 
fellow-guests  puffed  at  cigars. 

The  talk  turned  naturally  to  what  is  called  "shop,"  and 
discussion  waxed  keen.  There  were  rival  theories  on  many 
points;  experiments  pointed  to  different  conclusions;  and 
the  as  yet  unreached  solutions  of  various  problems  were  the 
subjects  of  contradictory  prophecies.  Gale  was  struck  with 
the  deference  accorded  to  Hall.  He  not  only  spoke  as  one 
having  authority  ("that  was  always  rather  his  way")  but 
was  listened  to  on  the  same  basis;  it  was  obvious  that  he 
was  a  much  bigger  man  than  his  student  friend  had  im- 
agined. It  was  Hall  who  finally  kindled  the  fire  which, 
smouldering  through  Gale's  musing  as  he  listened  to  the 
eager  talk  about  him,  caused  him  at  last  to  speak  with  his 
language-hampered  tongue. 

The  fire  first  began  to  smoulder  during  the  narration  of 
certain  experiments.  Vivisectors  are  not  cruel,  the  public 
is  told;  and  if  by  cruelty  is  meant  that  the  infliction  of 
pain  is  in  itself  pleasing  to  the  inflictors,  cruel  they  are 
not;  but  if  by  cruelty  is  meant  an  utter  indifference  as  to 
whether  pain  is  or  is  not  given,  a  disregard  of  suffering  if 
suffering  be  necessary  to  prove  a  certain  point,  of  cruelty 
the  large  majority  of  them  must  undoubtedly  stand  con- 
victed. It  was  the  cold  callousness  of  his  fellow-guests 
which  first  stirred  the  burning  in  Gale's  heart;  living  or- 
ganisms were  not  other  to  these  men  than  geological  speci- 
mens; their  only  care  obviously  was  that  the  subject  of  their 
experiments  should  be  motionless,  and  so  not  interfere  with 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  233 

the  success  of  their  investigations.  But  as  yet  he  kept 
silence.  His  pulses  stirred,  but  the  consciousness  of  his 
imperfect  French  still  held  him. 

"Yet,"  said  h  docteur  Detaille,  "all  this  experimenting, 
interesting  as  it  is,'  is  abortive,  unsatisfactory.  The  only 
decisive  proof,  the  final  experiment,  must  be  always  in 
connection  with  the  human  being." 

"Exactly,"  agreed  Beauregard.  "Such  a  method  might 
be  perfect  if  one  were  concerned  exclusively  with  the  pa- 
thology of  the  guinea-pig  or  the  rat.  It  may  be  defective  if 
one  argues  from  animals  to  man.  In  any  case  it  is  inade- 
quate."1 

"I  am  quite  of  your  opinion,"  said  Professor  Leibholtz; 
"but  in  our  country  we  not  only  hold  opinions,  we  act 
upon  them,  and  if  you  are  logical,  you  must  admit  that,  if 
the  end  is  all  important,  every  means  of  arriving  at  it  is 
defensible." 

"Certainly;  but  public  opinion " 

"Oh,  public  opinion !"  The  Viennese  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders. "  Sometimes  the  Press  spurts  out  some  humanitarian 
cant,  but  we  are  not  interfered  with.  We  command  the 
hospitals,  and  the  outside  public  is,  as  a  whole,  indifferent." 

"There  was  trouble  over  the  Doyen  business,"  observed 
Gale. 

"Doyen  of  Rheims  and  his  cancer-grafting?2  Yes,  all 
Europe  professed  to  be  interested ;  but  it  died  down,  it  died 
down.  Certainly  the  German  Press  is  not  universally  hos- 
tile. I  remember  reading  in  the  Vossische  Zeitung  the 
argument  that  as  a  general  sends  a  regiment  to  certain 
death  to  gain  the  victory  for  the  rest  of  the  army,  so  a 
doctor  should  be  allowed  to  act  in  a  similar  way." 

"The  sentiment  seems  to  me  to  tell  more  against  war 

>App.  16.  *App.  17. 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS 

than  in  favour  of  human-  vivisection,"  said  Gale  in  his 
halting  French;  and  everybody  laughed;  not  at  his  French, 
since  foreigners  are  rarely  amused,  or  rarely  show  their 
amusement,  at  the  language  blunders  of  strangers,  but  be- 
cause his  remark  was  supposed  to  be  the  Englishman's 
idea  of  a  joke.  Everybody  laughed  but  Hall,  and  he,  know- 
ing that  Gale  had  no  intention  of  joking,  frowned. 

"Do  you  think  that  Schreiber  did  much  for  humanity  by 
his  injections  of  Koch's  tuberculin  into  new-born  chil- 
dren ?"  asked  Giraud.  He  was  the  man  from  the  provinces, 
and  had  not  spoken  much. 

"I  cannot  quite  recall  the  experiments." 

"He  injected  fifty  times  the  maximum  dose  prescribed  by 
Koch  into  forty  new-born  infants."1 

"I  do  not  remember  the  results.  But  no  doubt  he  gamed 
knowledge.  It  is,  as  Monsieur  Beauregard  has  remarked, 
the  only  sure  method." 

"Is  it  the  general  practice  in  your  country  to  use  the 
hospitals  as  centres  of  investigation?"  asked  Gale. 

"In  most  hospitals,  I  should  say,  patients  are  made  use 
of  in  the  cause  of  science.  And  not  in  my  country  alone. 
1  think  you  will  find  this  sort  of  thing  is  carried  on  in 
Berlin  and  Paris  and  also  in  London." 

"Not  in  Lon "  began  Gale,  and  stopped  short.  Had 

not  Sarah  Jennings  been  made  use  of  ? 

"Ringer  undoubtedly  experimented  on  his  patients,"2 
said  Hall,  "and  I  think  myself  that  a  man  is  justified  in 
getting  some  return  for  the  time  and  skill  he  gives  with- 
out payment,  especially  as  the  sacrifice  of  the  few  is  for 
the  advantage  of  the  many.  But  in  England,  in  the  present 
state  of  public  opinion,  acknowledged  experimentation 
would  not  be  tolerated.  Though  it  is  just  in  England, 

JApp  18.  2App.  19. 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  235 

where  science  is  hampered  by  the  canting  outcry  of  anti- 
vivisectionists,  that  men  are  likely  to  be  tempted  to  gain 
their  knowledge  from  the  human  subject." 

"On  the  other  hand,  it  is  possible,"  said  Giraud,  "that 
if  that  outcry  ceased,  if  experiments  on  animals  were  unre- 
stricted, that  the  result  might  be  to  introduce  or  increase 
human  experiments  to  the  extent  which  prevails  in  coun- 
tries where  there  is  no  restriction." 

"Hein!"    Everybody  turned  to  the  speaker. 

"My  friends,"  said  Giraud.  He  was  a  massive  man,  big 
in  body  and  in  feature ;  his  eyes,  of  a  dark,  dull  grey,  were 
deep  set  beneath  a  wide  high  brow.  "My  friends,  I  am 
not  sure  whether  we  are  not  all  wrong,  whether  the  course 
we  have  followed  so  assiduously  has- not  brought  us  as  much 
error  as  knowledge ;  whether  the  system-  we  have  evolved  of 
injecting  disease  to  procure  health*  is  not  a  false  one.  I 
have  been  a  persistent  experimenter,  as  you  all  know,  and 
enthusiasm  in  the  cause  of  science — I  may  say  in  the 
cause  of  humanity — has  carried  me*  unflinchingly  through 
everything  which  seemed  to  promise  any  new  light  on  the 
problems  with  which  we  cope.  But  I  ask  myself,  after 
thirty  years'  work — not  mine  alone,  but  the  work  of  hun- 
dreds of  others — what  have  we  done?  Are  people  better? 
Is  the  race  stronger?  Has  disease  decreased?  To  all  these 
questions  I  must  answer,  No." 

"But  knowledge " 

"But  science " 

"But  the  surgical  art " 

Giraud  raised  a  large  hand. 

"Pardon.  I  know  all  you  are  going  to  say;  I  have  said 
it  many  times  to  myself.  It  does  not  answer  in  the  affirma- 
tive those  questions  I  have  asked.  As  for  the  knowledge 
gained,  is  it  more  than  academic  ?  As  for  practical  knowl- 


236  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

edge — I  tell  you  that  when  students  come  down  from  tKe 
Paris  hospitals  and  are  faced  with  ordinary  illnesses,  they 
are  helpless.  They  know  nothing  of  diagnosis,  nothing  of 
initial  symptoms ;  they  can  inoculate  and  they  can  carve — 
that  is  all.  Their  clinical  work  they  have  to  learn."1 

"You  have  not  become  a  renegade,  by  any  chance?" 
asked  Beauregard. 

"No,  only  a  thinker." 

"A  dreamer  perhaps,"  suggested  a  small,  dark  man  called 
Loret. 

"No,  but  a  free  thinker." 

"As  for  me,"  said  Michelin,  one  of  the  best  known  men 
present,  "I  am  not  afraid  to  avow  myself  a  dreamer.  I 
dream  of  what  may  be  and  also  of  what  shall  be." 

"Is  it  permitted  to  ask  how  you  make  your  division?" 
asked  Loret. 

"Certainly.  What  may  be  is  that  we  may  discover  the 
principle  of  life  itself " 

"And  they  call  me  a  dreamer!"  muttered  Giraud. 

"That  is  to  say,  we  may  be  able  to  solve  the  problem, 
compared  with  which  all  other  problems  are  insignificant 
and  preparatory  only:  how  do  nervous  impulses  so  flit  to 
and  fro  within  the  nervous  system  as  to  issue  in  the  move- 
ments which  make  up  what  we  sometimes  call  the  life  of 
man  ?"2 

"Monsieur,"  said  Giraud,  "the  principle  of  life  will 
never  be  discovered  through  the  practice  of  pain." 

"For  my  part,"  said  Detaille,  "I  am  not  concerned  with 
the  nature  of  life.  My  aim  is  to  prolong  it." 

"And  mine,"  agreed  Hall.  "I  am  with  Monsieur  Miche- 
lin only  as  regards  what  shall  be." 

*App.  20.  *App.  21. 


PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS  237 

"And  you  think  it  will  be  possible  to  discover  a  means 
of  extending  life  beyond  its  normal  limits  ?"  asked  Giraud. 
"Undoubtedly,"  said  Hall  and  Detaille  together. 
"By  eliminating  disease,"  said  Michelin,  "or,  what  is  the 

same  thing,  by  providing  an  antidote  to  every  disease m 

"Pardon  me,"  broke  in  Giraud,  "the  two  things  are  not 
the  same.  A  child  who  has  never  had  diphtheria  is  a  much 
healthier  child  than  a  child  who  has  passed  through  the 
disease  and  the  anti-toxin  treatment.  Those  who  have 
escaped  both  vaccination  and  small-pox  have  a  surer  and 
greater  vitality  than  those  who  have  been  subjected  to 
either.  That  must  be  allowed." 

"Then  how,  pray,  may  I  ask,  are  you  going  to  stamp  out 
disease  ?" 

"That,  Monsieur,  is  a  question  which  is  not  likely  to  be 
answered  so  long  as  the  intellect  of  the  profession  is  en- 
grossed by  the  present  methods." 

"But  according  to  the  intellect  of  Monsieur,  which  is 
not  so  engrossed?"  questioned  Loret. 

"It  has  occurred  to  me  that  it  might  be  by  the  cultiva- 
tion of  health,"  answered  Giraud;  and  met  the  storm  of 
derisive  dissent  with  unmoved  countenance. 

"There  are  diseases  so  rooted  in  the  race,"  began  Detaille. 
"In  civilised  races,"  put  in  Gale.    Giraud  looked  at  him 
across  the  table,  and  said : 
"  Parf  aitement." 

"In  civilised  races  if  you  will,"  continued  Detaille,  "that 
only  science  can  stamp  them  out." 

"In  conjunction,"  amended  Giraud,  "with  nature." 
"And  is  not  science  perpetually  engaged  in  the  study  of 
nature?"  asked  Michelin. 

"I  am  not  sure  that  science — physiological  science — has 

JApp.   22. 


238  PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

not  become  the  bully  rather  than  the  pupil  of  nature,"  an- 
swered Giraud,  and  again  evoked  a  storm  of  inarticulate 
dissent. 

"He  is  incorrigible,"  said  Detaille,  and  Giraud  answered 
him  only  with  a  slow  smile. 

"The  barrier  to  our  complete  success  consists  in  the  lim- 
itations imposed  upon  us,"  affirmed  Beauregard.  "It  is  a 
fact  that  there  is  an  unbridgable  gulf  between  the  animal 
and  human  kingdoms,  and  results  ascertained  in  the  one 
remain  problematical  in  the  other.  The  inadequacy  of  ex- 
periments upon  animals  only  is  indisputable  when  you 
consider  that  there  are  certain  maladies  peculiar  to  man 
alone,  and  that  some  of  them  cannot  be  reproduced  in 
animals." 

"As,  for  instance?"  added  Hall;  and  Beauregard  named 
the  unnameable  disease. 

"As  yet,"  Hall  conceded,  "we  have  failed." 

"And  you  will  never  succeed,"  said  Leibholtz.  "Believe 
me,  the  only  sure  material  for  the  experiment  is  the  human 
subject.  And  such  material  is  not  difficult  to  obtain.  I 
myself  inoculated  eight  girls  with  the  malady  under  dis- 
cussion, and  obtained  most  interesting  results.1  That  is 
much  better  than  wasting  your  time  trying  to  reproduce  in 
animals  diseases  exclusively  human." 

It  was  then  that  Gale  forgot  both  himself  and  his  im- 
perfect command  of  the  French  tongue.  "You  did  that?" 
said  he.  "Well,  I  call  it  devilish."  The  badness  of  his 
French  somewhat  obscured  the  expression  of  his  feeling,  but 
his  face  spoke,  while  the  bang  of  his  hand  upon  the  table 
formed  a  language  that  all  could  understand.  The  face  of 
the  Viennese  professor  assumed  an  expression  of  affronted 

'App.  23. 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  239 

displeasure;  on  the  other  faces  surprised  inquiry  was  the 
feeling  chiefly  displayed,  Giraud  regarded  the  excited 
Englishman  with  a  sort  of  reflective  sympathy. 

"Don't  make  an  ass  of  yourself,"  said  Hall  quickly,  in 
English,  "or  of  me.  My  friend,"  he  continued  in  French, 
"is  not  accustomed  to  converse  in  any  language  but  his 
own,  and  is  unable  to  choose  his  expressions.  In  England, 
as  you  know,  there  is  a  widespread  feeling  against  experi- 
menting on  human  subjects,  and  Mr.  Gale  sides  with  the 
bulk  of  his  professional  country-men.  Did  he  speak  French 
as  well  as  you  do,  professor,"  he  said,  turning  to  the  Ger- 
man, "he  might  be  able  to  argue  the  subject  with  you.  But 
I,"  he  went  on,  "will  show  you  all  that  if  experiments  on 
man  are  not  superfluous,  it  is  nevertheless  possible  to  dis- 
cover an  antidote  to  this  scourge  of  the  race  by  means  of 
the  animal  world." 

"But  animals  cannot  be  infected  with  it,"  said  two  men 
together. 

"As  yet  all  animals  have  proved  immune — even  monkeys. 
But  I  am  convinced  that  amongst  monkeys  there  must  be 
certain  species  in  which  it  could  be  engendered.  Gentle- 
men, I  propose  to  devote  myself  to  the  discovery  of  the 
particular  species  and  the  particular  method." 

Then  the  fire  already  kindled  in  Gale  leapt  up  in  flame. 
He  sprang  to  his  feet.  "It's  the  damnedest  idea  I  ever 
heard  of,"  he  cried.  "To  take  the  brutes  that  are  by  nature 
pure,  and  deliberately  infect  them  with  man's  impurity !  If 
that  is  science,  may  science  go  to  the  devil — and  you,  Hall, 
with  it !" 

For  a  minute  every  eye  was  upon  Gale;  waiters,  cus- 
tomers, everybody  in  the  place  looked  at  the  tall  English- 
man with  the  shining  eyes,  and  the  mane  of  hair,  shaken 
out  now  to  its  wildest  extent;  and  for  a  moment  Gale's 


personality  dominated  the  situation.  His  fellow-guests 
were  held  by  it ;  abashed  for  the  moment ;  unable  to  decide 
whether  to  be  angry,  scornful,  or  amused.  Then,  as  the 
vehement  instant  passed,  there  succeeded  to  it  a  short  un- 
comfortable space  in  which  nobody  quite  knew  what  to  do. 

Gale  himself  put  an  end  to  the  tension.  "Je  vous  de- 
mande  pardon,  messieurs,"  he  said  simply  in  his  English- 
translated  French,  "d' avoir  interrompu  1'harmonie  de  la 
soiree;  mais  j'ai  connu  Hall  quand  il  etait  etudiant,  et  si 
je  n'avais  pas  dit  cela,  je  serias  creve." 

"Then  I  congratulate  you  on  having  spoken,"  said 
Giraud.  "As  for  me,  I  like  an  honest  man,  and  I  am  sure 
these  gentlemen  are  of  my  opinion." 

"These  gentlemen"  bowed,  but  the  party  had  come  to  an 
end;  and  presently,  in  ones  and  twos,  the  guests  took  their 
departure. 

When  Hall  and  Gale  found  themselves  alone  Gale  turned 
to  his  host. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said.  "Of  course,  you  were  not  serious ; 
and  I — I  was  too  British  to  see  it.  I  have  made  an  ass  of 
myself.  The  only  consolation  is,  I  don't  suppose  I  shall 
ever  see  any  of  those  chaps  again." 

"But  I  shall,"  said  Hall  with  rueful  displeasure. 

Then  Gale  laughed,  and,  "Thank  God!"  said  he,  "my 
sense  of  humour's  coming  back  to  me." 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

DAVID  stood  at  the  nursery  window  and  looked  out 
into  Manchester  Square. 

The  troubled  look  that  had  haunted  her  face  all  summer 
had  gone ;  the  look  that  had  escaped  her  husband,  had  been 
noted  by  her  mother,  had  impressed  itself  on  Gale's  ob- 
servation the  day  she  had  come  to  his  house.  The  irreso- 
lution and  questioning  had  gone;  David's  face  had  fallen 
back  into  its  old  decided  lines,  because  David's  mind  was 
made  up.  The  training  of  her  girlhood,  the  mental  atmos- 
phere of  her  married  life,  had  had  their  effect,  and  the 
mother's  love  which  was  to  her  the  touchstone  of  morality 
had  been  an  overwhelming  weight  in  the  scale  of  her  de- 
cision. That  decision  arrived  at,  she  had  refused  to  con- 
sider any  more  Judy's  arguments  or  her  own  misgivings; 
doubts  had  been  dismissed,  scruples  banished;  and  the 
vivisectionist  plausibilities  of  anaesthetics,  absence  of  pain, 
advantage  to  science,  and  benefit  to  humanity  were  glib  on 
her  tongue. 

And  recently  she  had  been  strengthened  in  her  attitude, 
since  recently  she  had  had  practical,  almost  personal,  proof 
of  the  efficacy  of  one,  at  any  rate,  of  the  discoveries  of 
vivisectional  science.  For  Cranley  had  come  back  from 
Paris  well  and  strong,  saved  from  the  consequences  of  what 
might  have  proved  a  tragic  accident,  had  not  the  Pasteur 
Institute  been  ready  to  receive  him.  If  the  dog  had  really 
been  mad — and  it  was  impossible  now  to  know — it  was 

241 


PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

horrible  to  think  what  that  slight  graze  of  the  skin  might 
have  entailed,  had  not  the  antidote  been  discovered.  Sir 
James  Carey,  to  be  sure,  was  well,  too — so  far ;  but  the  peril 
was  not  yet  over,  and  were  she  Lady  Carey,  she  would  never 
feel  comfortable. 

Yet,  though  David's  face  was  calm  and  her  mind  free 
from  doubt,  that  pain  which  Gale  had  called  the  martyrdom 
of  motherhood  was  still  a  sorrow  in  her  heart,  a  cloud  in 
her  eyes.    For  Vi  was  no  better.    The  disease  developed  as 
time  went  on,  and  science,  so  far,  had  been  powerless  to 
arrest  it.    Cranley-Chance,  in  that  laboratory  where  he  had 
made  his  name,  had  been  working  now  three  years  to  find 
a  means  of  salvation.     Experiment  had  followed  experi- 
ment, and  animal  after  animal  had  been  sacrificed  on  the 
altar  of  Vi's  possible  recovery;  yet  nothing  had  been  dis- 
covered that  was  of  any  use ;  and  Vi  grew  worse.    That  the 
disease  was  making  progress  David  was  hardly  aware ;  cus- 
tom, which  blinds  most  vision,  dulled  her  watchful  eyes ;  and 
to  her,  Vi,  constantly  prostrate  now,  becoming  ever  more 
helpless,  ever  more  suffering,  seemed  always  much  the  same. 
So  much  indeed  does  custom  deaden  not  only  sight  but  feel- 
ing, so  much  does  human  nature  acommodate  itself  to  the 
environment,  that  David,  miserable  when  the  child  was 
first  taken  ill,  was  now  often  merry.    The  thought  of  Vi 
and  of  Vi's  suffering  was  rarely  altogether  absent  from  her 
consciousness;  but  continued  depression  was  impossible  to 
a  nature  naturally  so  buoyant  as  hers,  and  there  were  days 
when  she  was  as  gay  as  in  her  girlhood. 

To-day  was  one  of  those  days;  standing  at  the  window, 
looking  out  at  the  leafless  trees,  her  heart  was  light.  She 
stood  drumming  on  the  window-pane,  whistling  a  little  tune 
(Vi  liked  to  be  whistled  to),  and  was  turning  away  to  cross 
the  room  to  the  child  when  a  servant  brought  in  a  note. 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS  243 

"It's  from  gran'pa,  Vi,"  said  David,  opening  it.  "He 
wants  me  to  go  with  him  to-morrow  night  to  a  play.  I 
must  just  go  and  write  him  a  note,  dear." 

"Of  course  I  shall  love  to  go  with  "you,"  she  began  to 
write,  and  then  stopped  short.  "Oh,  dear!  how  tiresome," 
she  was  thinking;  "to-morrow  is  that  horrid  old  soiree  at 
the  Eoyal  Institution,  and  Cranley  expects  me  to  go  with 
him.  I  wonder — I  wonder  if  he  would  let  me  off?" 

She  went  downstairs  to  the  hall. 

"Tell  Sir  Bernard,"  she  said  to  the  man  who  was  wait- 
ing, "that  I'll  send  him  a  note  this  afternoon.  I  hope  to 
be  able  to  go,  but  I  must  see  Mr.  Chance  before  I  can  give 
a  decided  answer." 

She  went  upstairs  to  put  on  her  outdoor  things.  She 
had  ordered  the  brougham  at  eleven  o'clock,  with  the  inten- 
tion of  doing  some  shopping;  but  the  shopping  could  wait; 
she  would  drive  over  and  see  Cranley,  and  ask  him  to  let 
her  off  the  soiree. 

David  had  been  frequently  to  the  Empire  Institute.  Con- 
stantly she  called  for  her  husband  as  she  returned  from 
her  afternoon's  round,  and  was  familiar  with  the  little 
waiting-room  curtained  off  from  the  wide  corridor;  fa- 
miliar with  the  two  rooms  in  which  Cranley-Chance  did  his 
physiological  and  chemical  work;  familiar  with  the  class 
and  other  rooms  in  that  high-up  portion  of  the  building 
conceded  to  the  college  to  which  her  husband  was  attached. 
Familiar  she  was,  too,  with  the  oblong  brass  slab  on  whu-h 
Cranley  did  his  vivisections ;  so  familiar  that  it  had  lost  for 
her  the  air  of  half-repugnant  mystery  with  which  at  first 
it  had  been  clothed;  and  had  become,  indeed,  so  changed 
in  significance  by  the  views  in  which  she  had  entrenched 
herself,  the  knowledge  she  had  acquired,  that  it  seemed  to 
her  now  that  her  nerve  was  strong  enough,  her  convictions 


PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

profound  enough,  her  understanding  sufficiently  firm,  to 
enable  her  to  witness  a  physiological  experiment,  unham- 
pered by  selfish  and  sentimental  shrinking;  upheld  by  that 
spirit  of  scientific  inquiry,  of  broader  humanity,  with  which 
she  had  learned  to  associate  vivisectional  inquiry. 

But  Cranley-Chance  had  steadily  refused  to  allow  her  to 
be  present  at  even  the  simplest  of  his  investigations;  nor 
had  his  decision  been  affected  by  her  argument  that  if  she 
had  the  positive  evidence  of  an  eye-witness  wherewith  to 
confront  the  accusations  of  Judy  and  her  kind,  if  she  could 
vouch  from  personal  knowledge  that  those  accusations  were 
malicious  and  false,  it  would  give  her  statements  a  validity 
and  a  force  which  nothing  else  could  assure  to  them.  Low- 
ther,  appealed  to,  had  chaffed  David  on  her  scientific  cu- 
riosity. He  was  pleased  at  the  positive  attitude  which  his 
daughter's  opinions  had  assumed,  but  supported  her  hus- 
band in  his  view;  and  David  had  perforce  continued  to 
maintain  her  own  convictions  and  to  do  battle  with  Judy's 
on  second-hand  evidence. 

But  as  she  was  borne  upwards  in  the  lift  to-day,  there 
was  no  thought  in  her  mind  of  experiments  or  convictions, 
no  wish  to  gain  knowledge  or  confute  testimony;  she  was 
thinking,  and  thinking  only,  of  her  father's  invitation,  and 
her  strongest  desire  for  the  moment  was  to  induce  Cranley 
to  release  her  from  her  engagement. 

The  youth  who  admitted  her  to  the  broad  corridor  fan- 
cied the  professor  was  engaged.  Would  Mrs.  Cranley- 
Chance  wait  for  a  minute  while  he  went  to  see  ? 

"No,  never  mind,"  said  David,  impatient.  She  would 
go  along  and  tap  at  the  door;  it  would  be  all  right. 

She  was  used  to  go  direct  to  the  professor's  room,  used 
to  what  she  called  bearding  him  in  his  den.  He  knew  her 
particular  little  knock,  and  his  answering  "Come  in,  dear," 


PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS  245 

was  a  joke  between  them.  "For  if  it  should  be  somebody 
else,"  said  David,  "how  surprised  that  somebody  else  would 
be  1"  When  he  could  not  let  her  in  he  would  call  out,  "No 
admittance,"  or  come  to  the  door  and  tell  her  how  long  she 
would  have  to  wait  before  he  was  ready ;  and  now,  receiving 
no  answer  to  her  knock,  she  stood  waiting,  expecting  to 
hear  his  step  cross  the  floor  within.  But  there  was  no 
sound;  and  presently,  having  knocked  a  second  time  in 
vain,  she  ventured  to  open  the  door  and  peep  in. 

The  room  was  empty,  as  she  had  expected,  and  she  was 
vexed  by  the  thought  that  the  young  man  she  had  spoken 
to  had  made  a  mistake,  that  her  husband  had  gone  away, 
and  that  she  had  missed  him.  Then,  in  the  inner  room, 
beyond  the  half-open  door,  she  heard  voices,  and  one  the 
professor's  voice.  Instantly  the  little  feeling  of  hopeful 
excitement  revived,  for  she  was  inwardly  convinced  that 
Cranley  would  let  her  have  her  way ;  and  with  it,  in  the  re- 
action from  momentary  annoyance,  came  a  return  of  the 
merry  mood  of  the  morning. 

David,  since  the  days  when  she  had  played  at  being  an 
artist,  had  never  quite  lost,  though  the  faculty  had  been 
often  latent,  the  child's  instinct  of  play.  There  was  in  her 
a  perennial  child-germ  which,  when  favoured  by  mood  and 
circumstance,  was  wont  to  spring  suddenly  into  blossom; 
and  now  she  was  seized  and  fascinated  by  the  idea  of  giv- 
ing Cranley  a  surprise.  At  the  far  end  of  the  room  was  a 
cupboard  with  its  door  invitingly  ajar;  she  would  hide  in 
it,  and  when  her  husband  had  become  absorbed  in  his  work, 
would  suddenly  present  herself  at  his  side.  "Your  'Come 
in,  dear/  is  superfluous  to-day,"  she  would  say. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

A  QUARTER  of  an  hour  later  Cranley-Chance  had 
entered  the  room  and  had  carried  out  his  part  of 
the  programme  so  far  as  to  be  absorbed  in  his  work ;  so  ab- 
sorbed that  David  might  have  opened  wide  the  door  that 
stood  ajar,  have  left  the  cupboard  without  carefulness  of 
movement,  have  crossed  the  room  without  softening  of 
footsteps,  and  he  would  not  have  heard  her.  But  David 
had  not  moved. 

Coming  into  the  room,  she  had  not  noticed  that  the  row 
of  bright  instruments  which  usually  lay  on  a  shelf  beneath 
the  brass  slab,  was  ranged  by  its  side;  hiding  herself,  she 
had  had  no  idea  of  what  the  professor's  work  that  morning 
was  to  be.  And  now  in  her  mind  there  was  no  room  to 
consider  that  she  was  defying  her  husband's  wishes  by  re- 
maining where  she  was;  that  she  was,  in  fact,  if  not  in  in- 
tention, a  spy  upon  that  which  he  had  forbidden  her  to 
witness;  her  consciousness  was  caught  up  in  a  crisis  of 
experience  which  held  the  whole  of  it. 

When  the  dog — a  bitch  and  pregnant — which  now  lay 
upon  the  slab,  had  been  brought  into  the  room,  David  had 
had  her  moment  of  consternation,  bewildered,  undecided, 
regretful ;  and  ere  that  moment  had  passed,  ere  the  conflict 
between  suddenly  presented  opportunity  and  loyal  obedi- 
ence could  even  definitely  declare  itself,  the  time  for  action 
had  gone  by,  the  very  idea  of  action  was  annihilated.  For 
David  was  swept  right  away  from  the  consciousness  of  her- 

246 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  247 

self  as  herself,  right  away  from  the  consciousness  of  those 
ties,  ideas,  affections,  circumstances,  by  means  of  which 
we  relate  ourselves  to  life  as  we  know  it;  swept  on  to  a 
plane  of  new  and  acute  realisation  which  her  experience 
ihad  never  suggested  and  her  imagination  had  never 
touched. 

She  had  entered  that  plane  first  by  means  of  a  swift  and 
graphic  picture,  a  sudden  memory.  Ere  paraldehyde  and 
morphine  had  rendered  the  dog  motionless,  a  movement  of 
its  body,  a  tremor,  had  called  up  an  incident  of  the  days 
spent  at  the  Villa,  a  scene  in  which  Wuppums  had  hurt 
her  paw  and  had  had  it  bound  up  by  Judy.  The  trust  of 
the  dog  in  her  mistress  had  not  failed,  since  she  had  licked 
the  hand  from  which  she  yet  shrank ;  but  she  shrank  never- 
theless, shaken  with  a  nervous  trembling  which  embraced 
the  whole  docile  form.  And  Judith  had  said:  "They're 
so  nervous,  even  though  they  trust  you,  and  especially  the 
bitches."  The  little  scene  had  lain  hidden  away  in  the 
background  of  David's  recollection,  without  significance, 
meaningless;  and  now,  suddenly,  it  started  forward  into 
life,  a  fact  from  which  deduction  was  to  be  drawn,  and 
which  bore  direct  upon  that  other  fact,  the  dog  on  the  brass 
slab;  the  servant  (it  was  a  term  Cranley-Chance  had  used 
once)  the  servant  of  science. 

It  may  be  that  the  picture,  suddenly  upheld,  would  have 
passed  as  quickly  as  it  rose,  have  been  relegated  to  the  store- 
house of  those  doubts  and  scruples  which  David  had  rHs- 
missed,  and  left  no  trace  in  the  mind  where  it  showed 
itself,  had  it  not  been  followed  by  other  pictures,  not  revived 
from  the  past,  but  painted,  strong  and  clear,  in  the  present. 
As  it  was,  it  formed,  as  has  been  said,  a  key  to  realisation. 

These  are  the  pictures  that  David  watched  in  the  paint- 
ing. 


248  PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

She  saw  the  dog  firmly  secured  by  straps  and  clamps — so 
firmly  that,  conscious  or  unconscious,  it  could  not  have 
moved;  saw  an  incision  made  in  its  neck;  saw  the  windpipe 
bared  with  dissection  knives,  and  the  edges  of  the  wound 
held  apart  with  chain  hooks.  As  she  watched,  the  involun- 
tary shrinking  in  her  fought  with  the  thought:  "It  is  an- 
assthetised,  of  course,  doesn't  feel";  and  then  came  the 
echo  of  the  professor's  words  to  the  assistant,  words  in 
which  paraldehyde  and  morphine  occurred;  and  with  the 
echo  the  remembrance  that  he  himself  had  once  told  her 
that  certain  drugs  were  not  true  anassthetics,  but  only 
narcotics.  Of  these  drugs  paraldehyde  was  one,  and  mor- 
phine— yes — in  that  article  of  his — she  had  helped  him  to 
correct  the  proofs  of  it — he  had  certainly  said  that  morphia 
only  lessened,  did  not  abolish  pain.1 

But  the  pictures — or  the  one  picture  that  changed  from 
moment  to  moment — went  on.  There  had  been  in  the  first 
phase  of  it  a  dash  of  vivid  red;  but  now  the  blood  flow  was 
checked  by  the  assistant,  who  clamped  the  cut  arteries  and 
veins  with  steel  self-locking  forceps,  which  tightly  pinched 
the  vessels  and  flesh  as  they  closed,  and,  thus  closed,  re- 
mained a  permanent  part  of  the  picture. 

The  picture  was  not  quite  like  ordinary  pictures,  which 
are  silent  things,  for  from  this  picture  came  sound;  a  low 
sort  of  whistling,  as  through  the  incision  made  in  the  wind- 
pipe the  animal's  breath  rushed  forth,  ere  the  canula  was  in- 
serted, and  the  artificial  breathing  apparatus  was  complete. 

And  all  that  happened,  happened,  as  it  were,  to  an 
accompaniment  of  words  that  were  repeated  again  and 
again  in  David's  mind,  a  refrain  of  statement  and  question. 
"For  the  good  of  humanity,"  said  one  soundless  voice;  and 
another  asked  continually,  "What  is  good?"  Thus  it  went 

>App.  24. 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS  24-9 

on  while  a  fresh  wound  was  made  in  the  dog's  neck ;  while 
the  pulsating  carotid  artery  was  severed,  clamped,  and  the 
end  near  the  heart  connected  by  a  glass  and  rubber  tube  to 
a  mechanical  contrivance  for  the  record  of  blood  pressure: 
thus  it  went  on  while  the  jugular  vein  was  laid  bare,  and 
so  prepared  that  it  could  be  easily  dealt  with  later  on. 

And  now  the  dog  on  the  brass  slab,  strapped  and 
clamped,  with  wounds  held  open  by  hooks,  with  the  severed 
blood-vessels  held  secure  from  blood-letting  in  the  grasp 
of  the  forceps,  was  ready  for  the  experiment  proper.  David 
knew  no  difference  between  preparatory  and  directly  experi- 
mental w.ork ;  and  in  spite  of  the  knowledge  on  which  she 
prided  herself,  the  knowledge  which  in  conversations  with 
her  husband  she  had  gradually  gained,  that  which  her  eyes 
beheld  was  only  parly  intelligible  to  her  understanding. 
Yet  she  knew,  as  the  picture  changed  again,  knew  and 
realised  that  what  was  drawn  out  now  from  the  incision 
made  in  the  dog's  abdomen,  was  the  womb ;  though  she  did 
not  know,  at  the  time  did  not  know,  that  that  womb  held 
the  ripening  germs  of  incipient  life.  The  appeal  made  to 
her  later  on  by  the  outrage  on  maternity,  on  the  function 
sacred  throughout  all  nature,  was  not  made  to  her  then. 

And  indeed,  as  regards  emotion,  it  seemed  to  her,  on 
looking  back,  that  she  had  been  singularly  unmoved;  that 
she  had  had  no  concern  with  feeling;  that  she  had  simply 
stood  and  watched. 

Watching,  she  saw  the  dog,  mangled,  dissected,  powerless 
in  the  hands  of  man;  and  the  man,  who  had  wrought  the 
mangling  and  dissection;  and  who  performed  his  task  as 
coolly,  as  quietly,  as  deftly,  as  he  performed  those  other 
portions  of  his  work  which  had  to  do  with  chemistry.  And 
looking  at  him,  he  became  to  her  sinister,  terrible,  hardly 
human,  hardly  even  devilish ;  but  a  soulless  being,  obeying 


250  PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

automatically  impulses  of  irresponsible  force.  What,  in 
truth,  she  saw  was  that  which  the  love  of  knowledge,  noble 
in  itself,  pure  in  itself,  can  become  when,  divorced  from 
that  higher  morality,  which  is  one  of  love's  integral  ele- 
ments, it  degenerates  into  lust.  For  the  man  she  looked 
upon  was  not  consciously  cruel,  but  only  completely  callous. 
Pity  was  as  far  away  from  him  as  was  anger  or  pleasure  or 
pain;  the  only  emotion  he  was  conscious  of  was  the  desire 
to  know,  the  intense,  irresistible  curiosity  of  the  scientist 
whose  humanity  is  sunk  in  his  science:  and  possessed  by 
that  curiosity  he  was  ruthless. 

In  the  ftrange  calm  that  held  her,  David  noted  the  deli- 
cacy of  his  manipulation;  how  deftly  he  attached  the  ex- 
tracted womb  to  levers  arranged  so  as  to  record  upon  a  drum 
the  period  and  magnitude  of  contractions.  She  noted  the 
certainty  of  touch  with  which  he  severed  the  nerves;  the 
calm  with  which  he  compared  the  record  of  their  action 
with  a  previous  record ;  the  absence  of  haste  or  flurry  which 
characterised  his  movements,  as,  in  order  to  prevent  the 
dog  dying  from  the  shock  and  collapse  caused  by  the  magni- 
tude of  the  operation,  ere  the  experiment  was  complete,  he 
transferred  it  to  the  bath  in  which  salt  and  water,  kept  at 
blood  heat,  covered  all  wounds  save  that  in  the  neck. 

The  experiment  was  nearly  over  now;  there  remained 
but,  what  was,  indeed,  the  chief  end  and  gist  of  it,  the 
injection  of  a  drug  in  solution  into  the  jugular  vein  by 
means  of  a  syringe,  and  the  recording  of  the  drug's  effect. 

David,  watching,  did  not  know  that  the  records  of  the 
many  similar  experiments  which  her  husband  had  per- 
formed gave  bewildering  and  opposing  results;  nor  did  it 
occur  to  her,  in  those  watching  moments,  to  ask  herself  if 
the  administration  of  drugs  to  animals  in  a  way,  and  in 
conditions,  which  could  never  be  possible  in  the  case  of  a 


PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS  251 

human  being,  could  have  any  practical  bearing,  even  if  the 
results  had  added  to  accurate  scientific  knowledge  by  being 
always  the  same.  She  did  not  think  or  reason  at  all;  she 
only  looked  at  that  picture  of  the  motionless  dog  and  the 
emotionless  man ;  changing  always  like  the  evolving  picture 
of  a  cinematograph,  but  with  one  element  in  it  that  never 
changed:  the  utter  helplessness  of  "the  servant  of  science." 
Only  once,  quite  at  the  beginning,  she  had  a  desire  to  cry 
out;  never  once  was  she  brought  near  to  faintnees;  never 
once  was  she  able  to  close  her  eyes.  At  the  end,  when  it  was 
over,  when  she  saw  that  it  was  quite  over,  she  became  con- 
scious of  a  great  longing;  to  get  away;  but  knew,  and  re- 
signed herself  quite  quietly  to  the  knowledge  that  she  must 
wait1 

"Home!" 

"The  master's  not  coming,  ma'am?"  asked  the  coachman. 

"No." 

It  was  David's  wont  always,  when  she  came  home,  to  go 
straight  to  the  nursery.  She  went  there  to-day.  It  was  her 
wont  when  she  had  been  away  to  put  her  arms  about  Vi,  to 
kiss  and  pet  her.  Her  arms  went  round  the  little  form  to- 
day, longingly,  lovingly.  Sometimes,  in  the  intensity  of 
her  desire  to  help  the  child,  sometimes  in  the  passion  of  her 
tenderness,  the  tears  came  to  her  eyes  and  wet  the  face 
close  to  her  own.  But  to-day  she  did  not  cry. 

>App.  25. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

DAVID  did  not  go  either  to  the  theatre  or  to  the  soiree 
at  the  Royal  Institution.  To  her  father  she  wrote 
that  her  evening  was  engaged ;  to  her  husband  she  said  that 
she  did  not  feel  able  to  accompany  him.  When  Cranley- 
Chance  had  started,  she  put  on  a  hat  and  cloak  and. walked 
to  Harley  Street.  Lowther  would  be  at  the  theatre,  she 
knew,  and  she  should  find  her  mother  alone.  She  went  up 
to  the  drawing-room  unannounced,  and  opened  the  door. 

Lady  Lowther  was  sitting  by  the  fire,  in  her  usual  place, 
dressed  in  her  usual  dress,  knitting. 

She  looked  up.  "David!"  Then  in  a  different  tone: 
"Darling !"  For  David's  face,  as  she  crossed  the  room,  had 
changed. 

The  calm  which  had  come  upon  her  in  the  Empire  Insti- 
tute had  endured  through  the  rest  of  the  day  and  through- 
out the  day  which  succeeded  it.  She  had  lain  awake  all 
night,  sleeping  only  a  little  when  the  late  morning  dawned ; 
lain  awake  at  her  husband's  side,  listened  to  his  regular 
breathing,  turned  her  cheek  to  him  when  he  came  to  her, 
and  again  ere  he  rose.  Cranley-Chance,  who  was  not  ob- 
servant where  human  nature  was  concerned,  had  noticed  no 
difference  in  her  demeanour.  She  was  quiet,  certainly,  but 
she  had  her  quiet  days ;  and  when  she  said  she  did  not  feel 
up  to  going  out  with  him,  he  supposed  that  her  head  ached. 

And  David,  sitting  at  table,  sewing  at  a  garment  for  Vi, 
lying  still,  with  eyes  that  stared  out  into  the  darkness,  did 

252 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  253 

not  know  if  she  had  changed  or  no.  For  she  did  not  think ; 
she  looked  at  pictures.  And  when  she  turned  away  from 
the  pictures  she  felt  as  if  she  were  in  a  desolate  place,  a 
long  way  off  from  everybody  and  from  ordinary  life;  and 
she  had  a  sense  that  before  she  could  come  back  again  she 
must  go  through  a  process;  intellectual  was  it?  or  emo- 
tional ?  or  just  the  recognition  of  certain  fundamental  prin- 
ciples of  her  own  nature? 

But  into  the  cold  area  that  surrounded  her  came  a  little 
warm  breath ;  not  a  picture,  but  a  feeling ;  a  desire,  faint  at 
first,  but  growing,  to  see,  to  be  with,  her  mother.  David 
had  been  tempted  to  despise  that  mother;  had  said  to  her- 
self that  she  lacked  character  and  independence ;  had  called 
her  colourless.  But  now  she  thought  of  her  as  tender, 
gentle,  patient ;  not  questioning  much,  but  listening ;  barren 
of  argument,  but  prodigal  of  sympathy.  It  was  when  she 
came  into  that  mother's  presence  that  her  face  changed; 
moved  and  worked;  and  when  the  voice  said  "Darling!" 
David  came  back  from  the  desolate  place  in  a  rush,  in  a 
whirlwind  of  battling  emotions,  in  a  storm  of  tears.  Kneel- 
ing, she  laid  her  arms  upon  her  mother's  knee,  her  head 
upon  her  arms,  and  wept  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 

Lady  Lowther  drew  her  knitting  aside;  she  did  not 
speak,  but  stroked  the  brown  head  that  lay  upon  her  lap; 
her  face  wore  an  expression  of  distressed  bewilderment.  It 
was  not  till  the  crisis  had  passed,  till  the  sobs  had  died 
down,  and  David  sat  upright  on  a  footstool  at  her  feet,  that 
Lady  Lowther  said — 

"What  is  it?" 

Then  David  told  her,  was  able  quite  easily  to  tell  her; 
the  narration  came  in  swift  graphic  words  that,  conveying 
the  pictures  to  her  mother's  brain,  relieved  the  biting  pres- 
sure of  them  on  her  own. 


254.  PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

Bertha,  silent  through  all  the  narration,  was,  when  it 
ceased,  for  a  minute  silent  still.  Then  she  said:  "Long 
ago,  when  you  were  quite  a  little  thing,  I  made  a  compact 
with  your  father  that  I  would  never  speak  to  you,  never 
seek  to  influence  you,  on-  these  subjects.  I  think — I  thought 
at  the  time — that  I  was  wrong.  A  stronger  woman,  per- 
haps, would  have  held  on  her  course;  but  I  was  not — I 
never  have  been — and  at  the  time  I  was  nervous,  broken 
down — and  your  father  was  always  masterful.  Now  that 
this  has  happened  I  can  speak  to  you,  I  can  tell  you  all 
about  it.  There  is  no  use  in  not  speaking,  and  I  will  tell 
him  what  I  have  done  before  I  go  to  bed  to-night.  I  haven't 
always  been  honest  to  myself,  but  I  have  been  always  honest 
— I  think — with  Bernard.  David,  don't  you  think  you'd 
better  get  up  and  sit  properly  in  a  chair?  You'll  get 
cramped  down  there." 

The  suggestion,  so  characteristic  and  BO  prosaic,  did 
David  good,  and  made  her  smile. 

"No,  thanks.  I'm  comfortable  here.  I'll  lean  against 
you." 

She  rested  against  Bertha's  knee,  sideways,  looking  into 
the  fire.  Lady  Lowther  was  looking  into  a  cupboard  to 
which  nobody  but  herself  and  Isabel  Barker  had  the  key ;  a 
cupboard  which  she  was  about  to  unlock,  showing  to  her 
daughter  its  recesses,  and  the  skeleton  of  remorse  which, 
shut  in  there,  had  weighted  her  spirit  so  long. 

"When  you  were  a  little  bit  of  a  thing,"  she  said  pres- 
ently, "between  three  and  four,  I  went  through  a  severe 
operation;  I  had  to  have  what  they  call  a  floating  kidney 
taken  away.  I  am  a  coward,  as  you  know,  but  I  was  not  the 
least  nervous  about  that  operation.  I'd  had  an  easy  time 
when  you  were  born,  and  I  remembered  the  effect  of  the 
chloroform ;  and  the  thought  that  they  would  give  me  an 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS  255 

anesthetic  took  away  all  my  dread.  Anaesthetics  were  a 
sort  of  religion  to  me  in  those  days ;  I  believed  in  them,  I 
think,  quite  as  much  as  I  believed  in  God,  and  trusted  in 
them  more.  I'd  been  brought  up,  you  see,  to  be  what  Ber- 
nard calls  sentimental.  Your  grandfather  loved  animals, 
all  kinds  of  animals ;  he  never  would  have  the  birds  killed, 
I  remember ;  he  said  he  would  rather  lose  his  fruit ;  and  I 
was  brought  up  to  love  them,  too.  Dogs  and  cats  and  rab- 
bits— we  had  pets  of  all  kinds,  and  I  was  afraid  of  nothing 
in  that  way,  not  even  toads.  Well,  and  then,  when  I  grew 
up,  I  married  your  father." 

"Oh,  mother,  how  could  you?"  The  words  came  quick- 
ly, almost  before  David  knew  the  thought  was  in  her  mind. 

"You  see,  I  didn't  know.  Vivisection  was  only  coming 
into  fashion  then,  and  I  didn't  understand  it.  I  hated 
what  I  first  heard  about  it,  but  Bernard  told  me  my  ideas 
were  all  wrong,  and  the  way  he  explained  it  made  it  seem 
as  if  it  were  the  best  thing  for  animals  as  well  as  human 
beings.  Father  was  dead  then,  or  perhaps  I  should  have 
heard  the  other  side,  and  your  grandmother  was  quite  as 
easily  persuaded  as  I  was.  Though  I  must  say,"  said  Lady 
Lowther  in  parenthesis,  "that  I  have  known  a  great  many 
people  since,  who  were  supposed  to  be  much  cleverer  than 
me  and  yet  believed  things  that  were  told  them  just  in  the 
same  way." 

"Comfortable  things,"  said  David,  "yes,  because  one 
wants  to  believe  them." 

"The  anaesthetics  were  the  chief  things,  of  course.  You 
first  made  an  animal  unconscious,  Bernard  said,  and  found 
out  something  wonderful,  and  then  it  got  quite  well  and 
knew  nothing  about  it ;  or  else  it  was  killed  before  it  could 
feel  again.  I  didn't  quite  like  the  idea  of  the  killing;  but 
then,  when  he  pointed  out  to  me  that  it  was  a  much  more 


256  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

merciful  way  of  killing  than  by  sport,  I  agreed,  and  it 
seemed  all  right." 

"It's  much  better  when  they're  killed — much.  Go  on!" 
"Yes,  I  know  it  is,  but  I  didn't  know  then,  and  didn't 
think  much  about  it.  It  was  the  operation  made  me  think. 
I  went  to  it  quite  happily;  I  remember  walking  into  the 
room  where  the  doctors  were  and  saying  good  morning. 
Isabel  told  me  afterwards  that  everybody  said  I  was  so 
brave ;  but  I  wasn't  really,  you  know,  dear,  because  Bernard 
had  told  me  I  was  sure  to  get  over  it,  and  I  trusted  him 
absolutely ;  and  as  for  the  pain,  I  knew  I  shouldn't  feel  it. 
I  didn't  feel  it,  at  the  time.  It  was  when  I  came  to — oh, 
the  agony !  I  shall  never  forget  it,  and  it  went  on  and  on. 
It  was  a  shock  to  me  to  find  I  had  to  suffer  so  much;  I 
had  never  expected  it — which  was  stupid,  of  course,  but  I 
had  never  thought  about  anything  but  the  operation  itself. 
I  remember  saying  to  your  father:  'I  never  imagined  it 
would  be  like  this,'  and  he  answered:  'Well,  you  couldn't 
expect  to  be  cut  about  as  you've  been,  little  woman  (he  used 
to  call  me  that  in  those  days),  and  not  feel  it.'  And  then, 
after  he'd  gone,  I  remember  it  all  rushed  into  my  mind — 
the  thought  of  the  animals  that  were  operated  upon  and 
not  killed.  At  one  time  I  had  thought  it  was  so  much 

worse  to  kill  them,  and  now I  was  cared  for,  nursed, 

petted;  I  had  narcotics  to  dull  the  pain;  everything  was 

done  to  help  and  ease  me.  But  they When  the  thought 

came  to  me,  I  forgot  my  own  pain  for  a  time.  I  sent  for 
Bernard,  and  I  told  him — I  was  very  open  with  him  in 
those  days — I  told  him  what  was  in  my  mind.  I  remember 
he  laughed,  and  told  me  not  to  worry.  That  laugh  was  the 
first  thing  that  came  between  us;  I  couldn't  forget  it." 

Bertha  paused,  but  the  figure  at  her  feet  did  not  move, 
and  presently  she  went  on  speaking. 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS  257 

"I  didn't  say  anything  more  till  I  was  well,  but  I  went 
on  thinking.  I  thought  of  the  animals  coming  out  of  the 
anaesthesia  to  pain  like  mine;  and  I  thought  how  Bernard 
and  his  friends  had  always  said  there  was  no  pain  in  vivi- 
section ;  and  I  thought  about  the  certificates  Bernard  held 
which  dispensed  with  the  use  of  anaesthetics.  I  had  always 
believed  everything  I  was  told  up  till  then.  Now  I  began 
to  doubt.  I  knew  that  not  feeling  pain  at  the  time  of  an 
operation  did  not  mean  no  pain  after  it;  and  I  knew  that 
all  vivisection  couldn't  be  painless;  I  began  to  doubt 
whether  the  men  who  did  these  things  really  cared  or  not 
whether  the  animals  suffered." 

"They  don't,"  David  said.  "They  don't  want  to  hurt, 
but  they  don't  really  care,  if  it  interferes  with  what  they 
want  to  know." 

"When  I  got  well  I  spoke  to  your  father  again,  and  that 
time  he  got  angry.  Then  I  spoke  to  Isabel  Barker,  and 
found  that  she  hated  vivisection  as  much  as  I  hate  it  now. 
Well,  when  Bernard  saw  how  really  upset  I  was,  he  tried  to 
soothe  me  down  again.  He  brought  forward  all  sorts  of 
arguments,  and  he  assured  me  that  all  the  things  anti- 
vivisectionists  said  were  lies.  Isabel,  of  course,  was  an 
A.-V.,  and  I  knew  she  was  not  a  liar ;  but  Bernald  said  the 
lies  were  not  always  intentional,  that  they  often  came  from 
silly  women  not  understanding.  I  don't  know  how  it  might 

have  ended — whether — for  a  time Anyhow,  just  at 

that  time  we  moved.  We  had  been  living  at  St.  Leonards, 
and  we  came  up  to  London  and  took  a  house  in  Campbell 
Square.  What  I  went  through  there  I  cannot  say.  Night 
after  night  I  was  kept  awake  by  the  howls  and  groans  of 
the  animals  belonging  to  the  Campbell  Street  Hospital.1 
I  believe  something  has  been  done  now  to  deaden  the 

lApp.  26. 


258  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

sounds,  but  in  those  days  you  heard  them  plainly.  At  first 
I  did  not  know  what  it  was.  When  I  found  out — you  will 
know  why  I  could  not  sleep.  To  think  of  them,  hour  after 
hour,  helpless  and  in  pain,  recovered  from  the  anaesthetics 
(those  who  had  had  anaesthetics),  but  not  from  the  oper- 
ations !  I  had  been  through  an  operation  myself,  you  see, 
and  knew  what  it  meant.  It  was  Campbell  Square  that 
brought  things  to  a  crisis.  I  couldn't  stand  it.  I  told 
Bernard  so,  and  I  begged  him — and  I  remember  that  I 
really  had  the  hope  that  I  might  be  able  to  influence  him — 
I  begged  him  to  give  up  the  experiments  and  be  a  doctor 
and  not  a  physiologist." 

"And ?"  David  half  turned  as  her  mother  paused. 

"He  was  only  amused  at  first;  then  he  was  angry.  You 
were  a  little  bit  of  a  thing,  two  years  old,  and  I  begged  him, 
for  your  sake,  not  to  do  things  that,  as  you  grew  older,  you 
would  hate.  Then" — Bertha  paused  for  a  moment — "then 
came  the  struggle.  He  said  he  would  not  have  his  child 
taught  ridiculous  notions;  rather  than  that,  he  would  sep- 
arate from  me  altogether ;  that  a  hysterical  woman  was  not 
a  fit  person  to  bring  up  a  child.  I  don't  know — of  course 
he  could  have  separated  from  me,  for  I  should  never  have 
tried  to  stay  in  his  house  against  his  will — but  I  don't  know 
whether  he  could  have  kept  you  from  me." 

"Of  course  he  couldn't." 

"Isabel  said  he  couldn't,  but  he  said  he  could.  He  came 
in  one  day  when  Isabel  was  with  me,  and  they  had  a  fearful 
row.  It  was  patched  up  later  on,  in  a  sort  of  way,  but  they 
never  meet  if  they  can  help  it.  I  always  wondered  your 
father  let  you  go  to  Lapelliere  to  a  friend  of  hers." 

"I  suppose  he  thought  all  her  friends  were  harmless 
dowdies.  And  of  course  it's  only  lately  he  has  realised 
what  a  part  Judy  plays  in  the  A.-V.  movement." 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  259 

"Yes.  Well,  as  I  said,  I  wasn't  sure  whether  he  could 
take  you  from  me,  and  I  didn't  get  the  length  of  consulting 
a  lawyer.  I — I  was  foolish  enough  and  weak  enough  to 
dread  the  scandal  and  the  being  cast  adrift,  and  I  knew, 
too,  that  a  girl  whose  parents  are  separated  has  a  slur  upon 
her.  People  always  think  it's  the  mother's  fault,  and  that 
the  daughter  will  be  like  her." 

"What  am  I  to  say?"  asked  David,  as  the  low  voice 
ceased.  "I  don't  know  whether  you  were  right  or  wrong." 

"Yes,  you  do.  You  know  I  was  wrong.  I  know  it,  too. 
I  agreed  never  to  speak  to  you  about  what  I  felt  so  strongly, 
to  let  you  be  brought  up  to  believe  in  things  I  hated,  to 
take  no  active  part  in  the  movement  which  Bernard  had 
taught  me  to  despise  and  which  I  longed  now  to  join.  And 
when  I  had  done  it,  I  felt  like  a  traitor,  like  Judas." 

"Poor  little  mother!" 

"The  feeling  seemed  to  kill  the  youth  out  of  me.  I  gave 
up  caring  about  pretty  clothes  (I  was  very  fond  of  them 
once) ;  I  gave  up  caring  to  look  my  best;  I  seemed  to  sink 
down — into  what  I  am.  The  only  thing  that  has  been  a  sort 
of  comfort  to  me  has  been  this" — she  laid  her  hand  upon 
the  knitting  by  her  side — "the  work  that  sometimes  used 
to  vex  and  irritate  you.  I  got  into  touch,  through  Isabel, 
with  a  firm  that  sells  hand-knitted  goods,  and  I  have 
worked  for  it  regularly  for  years.  The  money  I  earn  is  my 
own,  not  Bernard's,  and  I  give  it  all  to  the  one  thing.  It 
makes  me  feel — especially  going  on  working  when  I  am 
tired — a  little  less  of  a — a  coward." 

David's  eyes  were  wet  again.  "Dear  mother,  if  I'd  only 
known !" 

"But  it  was  just  what  you  might  not  know." 

"You  must  have  been  so  lonely,  and  I  gave  you  no  sym- 
pathy." 


260  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

"I  had  you  with  me,  dear;  I  had  what  I  had  bargained 
for.  A  sort  of  wall  between  us  there  must  always  be,  I 
knew,  unless  something  happened — like  what  has  happened, 
and  I  never  knew  quite  whether  to  hope  or  fear  it." 

"You  should  have  hoped." 

"It  is  your  relations  with  Cranley.  I  know — I  know 
that  you  will  never  give  way  like  me." 

"I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do.  No,  that's  not  true.  I 
didn't,  when  I  came  here.  Now  I  think  I  do."  David  got 
up.  "Good  night,  mother!" 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

WHEN  David  got  home  she  went  into  her  husband's 
...  study;  the  book-lined  room,  with  the  huge, 
leather-covered  writing-table,  and  the  capacious  arm-chairs, 
in  which,  to  be  comfortable,  she  could  not  sft,  but  had  to 
curl  herself  up  in  cat  fashion. 

There  was  one  chair,  stiff  and  straight,  which  stood  be- 
fore the  writing-table,  and  it  was  to  this  chair  that  David 
went.  Sheets  of  the  sermon  paper  on  which  Cranley  wrote 
his  articles  for  scientific  and  medical  periodicals  lay  on  the 
table,  some  blank,  some  covered  with  his  close,  somewhat 
cramped  handwriting.  David  was  used  sometimes  to  scan 
the  loose  sheets  that  often  lay  thus;  sometimes  she  would 
alter  a  word  or  add  a  comma,  and  would  say  jestingly  that 
she  did  her  best  to  improve  her  husband's  English.  To- 
night her  eyes,  absently  at  first,  glanced  along  the  written 
page ;  and  then  she  saw  that  the  professor  had  been  writing 
an  account  of  the  experiment  of  yesterday. 

"The  changes  in  the  uterus  induced  by  drugs  are  so 
important  from  a  practical  point  of  view,"  she  read,  "that 
I  have  taken  up  the  question  afresh  and  have  performed 
a  large  number  of  experiments  on  dogs,  rabbits,  and  cats."1 

David  turned  away.  "A  large  number  of  experi- 
ments  "  A  large  number! 

She  rose,  took  a  cushion,  and  placing  it  before  the  fire, 
sat  down  there  and  thought.  She  thought  for  an  hour; 
short,  because  the  time  passed  unheeded;  long,  because 

'App.  27. 
261 


262  PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS 

there  were  so  many  thoughts  in  it.  Words  came  back  to 
her  that  she  had  listened  to  unheeding  and  dismissed  with 
contempt ;  words,  too,  that  she  had  listened  to  with  irritated 
discomfort  and  dismissed  with  decision;  other  words  that, 
in  a  discussion  she  had  ventured  upon  with  John  Cameron, 
had  been  uttered  by  him,  and  that  she  had  never  been  able 
quite  to  dismiss. 

"There  is  something  more  precious,"  he  had  said,  "than 
knowledge,  even  accurate  knowledge;  more  precious  than 
physical  gain,  even  assured  gain;  the  spiritual  progress  of 
man.  Any  method  of  acquiring  anything,  whether  it  be 
knowledge  or  ease,  material  advantage  or  mental  power,  any 
method  which  inflicts  pain  upon  any  sentient  creature, 
save  for  the  creature's  benefit,  is  against  that  progress. 
Vivisection  appeals  to  the  two  basest  instincts  of  humanity 
— selfishness  and  cowardice;  instincts  which  delay  man's 
march,  and  degrade  his  nobility.  Shall  man  take  knowl- 
edge of  his  body,  comfort  of  his  body,  in  exchange  for  his 
soul?" 

And  she  thought  of  Claude  Bernard,  one  of  the  fathers 
of  modern  vivisection,  whose  daughter  had  left  him,  refused 
to  live  with  him,  because  of  the  cruelties  he  committed.1 

"But  you  must  remember  the  point  of  view."  Cranley- 
Chance's  arguments,  which  had  soothed  or  satisfied  her,  rose 
up  and  did  battle  for  his  cause.  "The  character  of  a  deed 
is  in  its  motive."  And  then  came  Judy's  words,  when,  at 
second-hand,  David  had  advanced  Cranley's  argument. 

"All  very  well  for  the  man  who  does  the  deed,"  Judy 
had  said,  "but  it  has  no  validity  for  the  man,  woman,  child, 
or  animal  who  is  hurt.  A  man  may  knock  me  flat  on  the 
road,  bash  my  head  in  and  make  off  with  my  purse.  His 
motives  may  be  of  the  purest;  his  wife  and  children  may 

*App.  28. 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  263 

be  starving,  and  what  more  commendable  than  to  feed 
your  children  and  your  wife  ?  But  my  head  hurts  me  just 
as  much  as  if  he  had  wanted  to  get  drunk  on  my  money,  or 
prove  scientifically  that  a  head  hit  with  a  certain  force  will 
bleed.  Motive  is  all  very  well,  my  dear,  and  an  individual 
may  be  absolved  by  his  motives  for  all  I  know.  But  if,  safe 
in  his  own  purity,  he  lowers  the  standard  of  the  community 
by  the  morality  of  his  acts,  I  say  he  is  a  pest  to  that  com- 
munity, even  though  his  acts  should  result  in  the  discovery 
of  a  gold  mine." 

And  she  thought  of  the  words  which  in  her  girlhood  had 
puzzled  her;  which  all  her  life  had  haunted  her;  which 
baffled  still  her  understanding:  "This  present  life  is  not 
the  end  where  much  glory  doth  abide;  therefore  have  they 
prayed  for  the  weak."  The  glory  of  science ;  would  it  not 
abide?  The  weak ? 

David  moved  her  head.  The  door  of  the  study  was  open, 
and  she  could  hear  the  latchkey  turn  in  the  front  door. 
But  she  did  not  rise.  Then,  as  the  latch  lifted  and  the  door 
turned  on  its  hinges,  she  got  up  quickly;  for  Cranley- 
Chance  was  speaking ;  it  was  evident  that  he  was  not  alone. 

She  got  up,  conscious  both  of  relief  and  vexation.  Per- 
haps— Cranley  was  going  to  Glasgow  to-morrow  to  give  two 
lectures  on  the  progress  of  physiological  knowledge  during 
the  last  decade;  perhaps  she  would  have  to  defer  what  she 
had  to  say  till  his  return. 

Then  into  the  study  came  Lowther. 

"David!"  he  exclaimed;  and  "David!"  echoed  Cranley- 
Chance  behind  him. 

"How  did  you  meet?"  was  all  David  said. 

"I  wanted  to  see  him,"  answered  Lowther,  "and  as  I  had 
a  card,  I  got  rid  of  Mallison,  who  was  with  me,  and  went 
round  by  the  Institution,  thinking  to  bring  you  both  home. 


264  PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS 

He  told  me  you  were  not  very  fit,  and  I  expected  you'd 
have  gone  to  bed." 

Chance  was  looking  at  the  hat  and  cloak  flung  down  on 
a  neighbouring  chair. 

"Where  have  you  been?"  he  asked. 

"To  Harley  Street."  There  was  a  dryness  in  David's 
throat,  a  thumping  in  her  chest  that  made  her  voice  sound 
constrained  and  queer. 

Both  men  looked  at  her. 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  Lowther. 

For  a  moment  David  was  tempted  to  answer,  "Nothing." 
She  was  not  a  coward,  but  she  dreaded  her  father's  tongue, 
shrank  from  the  derisive  spirit  which,  when  his  prejudices 
were  combated,  sat  in  his  eyes  and  gave  a  biting  tone  to  his 
voice. 

She  had  arranged  what  she  was  going  to  say  to  her  hus- 
band, and,  strung  up  as  she  was,  she  had  thought  she  would 
have  no  difficulty  in  saying  it.  But  with  Lowther  it  was 
different.  She  had  imagined  that  when  she  saw  him  again 
he  would  have  learned  from  her  mother  what  had  befallen 
her,  and  how,  by  that  befalling,  she  had  been  affected.  She 
would  meet  his  sarcasms,  steel  herself  to  meet  them,  but 
she  would  not  have  to  give  him  the  information  from  which 
those  sarcasms  would  spring.  It  would  be  strain  enough 
simply  to  meet  them;  a  strain  all  the  harder  in  that,  in  a 
sense,  limited  to  be  sure,  but  actual,  her  father  had  been  a 
hero  to  her.  Though  she  had  opposed  him  sometimes  in 
matters  of  personal  plans  and  wishes,  though  in  certain  di- 
rections she  had  maintained  her  own  views  in  defiance  of 
his,  his  mental  standpoint  had  been  nevertheless  the  stand- 
ard by  which  she  had  measured  mental  capacity;  in  ques- 
tions of  intellectual  discernment  and  scientific  judgment, 
she  had  reverenced  his  opinion  and  craved  his  approval. 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  £65 

She  had  been  flattered  by  the  footing  of  equality  on  which 
of  late  years  he  had  discoursed  to  her  of  his  professional 
interests;  had  applauded  his  sweeping  denunciations  of  all 
that  was  maudlin,  sentimental,  and  reactionary;  and  had 
prided  herself  on  being  ahead  of  those  futile  folk  whose 
heads,  in  Lowther's  phrase,  were  as  soft  as  their  hearts. 

Now  she  must  lose  her  place  in  her  father's  estimation; 
not  only  lose  it,  but  witness  the  process  of  forfeiture;  see 
the  eyes  that  had  glanced  approval  grow  hard  and  jeering; 
hear  the  jibes  that  had  evoked  her  laughter  turned  against 
herself;  feel  herself  sink  from  being  "a  woman  of  uncom- 
mon sense"  into  a  member  of  that  contempt-laden  company 
which  Lowther  comprehensively  designated  as  "women  and 
fools." 

Feeling  all  this,  she  hesitated ;  only  for  a  moment.  She 
had  always  had  the  courage  of  her  convictions ;  it  faltered, 
but  did  not  fail  her  now. 

"Just  this,"  she  answered.  She  did  not  move  as  she 
spoke,  but  turned  her  eyes  from  face  to  face,  as  she  ad- 
dressed first  one  man  and  then  the  other.  "When  your 
invitation  came  yesterday  morning,  I  felt  I  must  speak  to 
Cranley  before  accepting  it.  I  drove  down  to  see  him  and 
went  up  as  usual.  They  told  me" — her  eyes  turned  to 
Cranley-Chance — "that  it  was  doubtful  whether  you  were 
not  engaged " 

"I  never  heard  you  were  there,  never  heard  anything 
about  it.  I  was  engaged,  but  they  ought " 

"It  was  nobody's  fault.  I  said  I'd  go  to  your  room 
and  see;  and  I  went — and  found  it  empty."  David  stopped, 
to  swallow  something  that  seemed  rising  in  her  throat 

"I  was  probably  in  the  inner  room.  If  you'd  called,  I 
should  have  heard  you.'* 

"You  were  there;  I  heard  your  voice.    I  thought  I'd — 


266  PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS 

play  you  a  trick — surprise  you — hide  myself  and — and 
come  out  later,  when  you  were  at  work." 

Cranley-Chance  gave  vent  to  an  exclamation,  took  a 
step  backwards;  but  David  did  not  heed  him;  her  eyes 
turned  and  met  her  father's  eyes,  critically,  acutely  ob- 
servant. 

"I  did  hide." 

"And  saw  him  do  a  vivisection,  and  were  upset  by  it.  So 
much  for  disobedience!"  said  Lowther.  "Now  perhaps 
you'll  admit  I  was  right?" 

"You  were  there — all  the  time?"  cried  Chance.  "Good 
God !  David,  I  find  it  hard  to  forgive  you." 

David  answered  her  father.  "You  were  right — in  one 
way;  but  in  another  quite,  quite  wrong." 

"Indeed?" 

"It  wasn't  the  least  a  fit  experiment  for  you  to  see," 
broke  in  the  professor.  "For  a  novice — for  a  woman " 

"Don't  you  think  you'd  better  go  to  bed  and  sleep  it 
off?"  asked  Lowther.  "I  should  give  her  a  little  bromide, 
Cranley.  Nerves  a  bit  upset ;  tendency  to  hysteria." 

This  time  David  answered  her  husband,  before  he  had 
time  to  reply  to  her  father's  suggestion. 

"It's  just  because  I'm  a  woman,  I  think,  that  I  was 
specially  interested;  just  because  I'm  a  woman  that  I  was 
specially  appalled." 

"Ha !"  said  Lowther,  in  a  tone  that  implied  "Now  it's 
coming.  This  is  what  I  expected." 

"Don't  try  to  discuss  things  you  can't  possibly  under- 
stand," said  Cranley-Chance.  "To  follow  that  experiment 
you  would  require  a  training  and  an  experience " 

"I  dare  say;  and  I  don't  want  to  discuss  it;  I  want  as 
little  discussion  as  possible.  I  only  want  you  to  under- 
stand, both  of  you" — it  was  Lowther's  eyes  she  looked 


PRIESTS   OP   PROGRESS  267 

into — "that  when  you  talked  to  me  about  vivisection,  and  I 
talked  too,  and  listened,  I  didn't  in  the  least  realise  what 
it  meant." 

Lowther's  lower  lip  went  out.  "  Half  a  lifetime  of  logic 
annihilated  by  the  sight  of  a  drop  of  blood !  That's  wom- 
an," said  he.  "And  she  wants  the  franchise!" 

"I  knew  you'd — jeer,"  said  David.  "I  was  prepared 
for  it."  Now  that  the  storm  had  come,  now  that  her 
father's  face  actually  wore  the  look  she  had  dreaded,  she 
felt  that  it  was  easier  to  bear  than  she  had  expected.  The 
sense  that  it  is  impossible  to  go  back  sometimes  supplies 
the  courage  to  go  forward.  "As  for  logic — these  are  things 
that  cannot  be  reasoned  about  until  they  are  thoroughly  un- 
derstood." 

"I  fully  agree,"  put  in  Lowther.  "And  the  proposition 
that  you  advance  is,  if  I  mistake  not,  that  you  now  thor- 
oughly understand  the  scientific  aspect  of  vivisection.  On 
that,  Cranley,  I  think  I'll  have  a  cigar.  You  don't  object 
to  smoke,  I  think?"  he  said,  addressing  David. 

She  handed  him  the  matchbox  from  the  mantelpiece. 

"I  realise  something  that  I  had  not  realised  before;  I 
make  no  claim  to  understanding.  I  believe  I  accepted 
your  opinions,  and" — her  eyes  turned  to  Chance — "and 
your  assurances,  because  it  was  so  much  more  comfortable 
to  accept  them.  It  made  me  seem  in  my  own  eyes,  and 
in  yours" — she  glanced  from  face  to  face — "a  clever,  ad- 
vanced woman,  capable  of  appreciating  the  scientific  spirit. 
I  dare  say  there  are  women,  medical  women,  who  really 
think  as  you  do,  who  have  been  so  trained,  as  you  say, 
that  they  can  realise  what  these  things  mean  and  still 
uphold  them.  No,  I  don't  want  you  to  speak,  Cranley,  till 
I  have  finished.  And  I  dare  say  there  are  experiments 
quite  different  from  the  one  I  saw;  it  may  be  that  there 


268  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

are  experiments  quite — as  I  have  been  often  told — quite 
painless.  That  hardly  seems  to  me  to  come  in.  What  I 
feel  is  that  a  system  which  includes  the  kind  of  thing  I 
saw  yesterday,  is  a  system  that  goes  against  something 
which  is  more  important  than  anything  and  everything 
that  system  may  find  out  or  acquire.  I  mean,"  David 
said,  losing  a  little  her  manner  of  calm  statement,  and 
speaking  now  with  a  slight  tremor  in  her  voice,  a  note  of 
appeal  in  her  tone,  "that  there  is  something  in  me  which 
would  rather  suffer  pain  than  benefit  by  doing  to  an  animal 
what  you — what  was  done  yesterday." 

She  glanced  from  face  to  face  with  eyes  that  said 
"Don't  you  understand  ?" 

Cranley-Chance,  angry  with  his  wife,  was,  nevertheless, 
more  distressed  than  angry;  Lowther  was  only  angry. 
David  perceived  intuitively  the  difference  of  attitude,  and 
her  look  rested  on  her  husband. 

"If  you'd  only  obeyed  me,"  he  said,  and  said  it  testily, 
"this  wouldn't  have  happened,  and  it  would  have  been  all 
right." 

"I  didn't  deliberately  disobey  you.  And  I — I'm  glad 
it  happened.  It  wouldn't  have  been  'all  right.'  I  should 
have  been  happier,  perhaps,  in  a  way,  going  on  thinking 
that  vivisection  could  be  done  without  cruelty,  but " 

"Cruelty!"  broke  in  Lowther.  "Pooh!  She's  learnt 
the  language  already,  Cranley;  cruelty,  torture,  inhuman 
monster.  Well,  it's  an  easy  vocabulary — being  so  limited. 
And  so  we  are  cruel,  Cranley  and  I?  an  inhuman  father? 
a  monster  of  a  husband  ?  How  ?  Why  do  you  call  us  cruel  ?" 

"Because  you  do  cruel  things." 

"To  you?"  asked  Chance. 

"No.  But  many  men  who  have  done — all  sorts  of  things, 
have  been  kind  to  their  wives  and  children." 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS  269 

"And  children,"  echoed  Lowther.  "How  about  Vi?  Is 
the  chance  of  her  recovery  to  be  sacrificed  to  anti-vivisec- 
tionist  principles?" 

"I  will  do  for  Vi  what  I've  always  done,"  David  an- 
swered, "all  I  can.  But  I  don't  want  you,"  she  said  to 
her  husband,  "to  go  on  making  experiments.  It  has  done 
no  good;  nothing  that  you  have  done  has  given  her  even 

five  minutes'  ease ;  and  apart  from  that,  I "  She  made 

an  effort,  and  looked  Lowther  full  in  the  face.  "You  know 
what  it  means  to  me  to  see  Vi  suffer ;  or  it  hurts,  perhaps, 
more  than  you  know.  But  there  are  prices  that  one  can't 
pay,  however  much  one  may  want  what  they  would  buy; 
things  one  can't  do.  This  scientific  way  of  trying  to 
escape  from  suffering  is  one  of  them.  It's  not  only  the  ani- 
mals, but  the  women — and  children — little  children " 

Her  voice  faltered. 

She  had  spoken,  not  defiantly,  not  with  any  assumption 
of  heroic  sentiment,  but  in  a  low  voice,  almost  deprecat- 
ingly.  But  Lowther  had  no  pity. 

"You  have  it  all  very  pat.    Who's  been  coaching  you  ?" 

"It's  that  Home  woman  who's  at  the  bottom  of  it  all," 
said  Chance. 

David  answered  her  father.  "I  suppose  the  thoughts 
must  have  been  in  me  for  a  long  time,  only  I  wouldn't  listen 
to  them.  I  think  there  was  a  part  of  me  that  knew  always 
it  was  cowardly  to  take  advantage  of  defenceless  things; 
but  I  hid  away  from  it;  I  wouldn't  let  myself  know  what  it 

meant.  But  I  can't  hide  any  more.  And  so "  David 

broke  off.  "I  think  I'll  go  upstairs  now."  She  turned  to 
the  professor.  "You  and  I  will  talk  this  out  when  you 
come  back  from  Glasgow." 

David  spent  the  night  in  the  room  with  Vi.  She  told 
the  nurse,  who  slept  in  an  adjoining  room  with  the  door 


270  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

open,  that  she  could  shut  the  door;  and  she  herself  at- 
tended to  the  child's  wants,  the  emotion  in  her  finding 
vent  in  an  added  tenderness. 

"Vi,"  she  said  more  than  once,  "we'll  bear  what  we 
have  to  bear  as  best  we  can;  but  we'll  keep  to  the  clean 
ways,  dear,  you  and  I." 

Most  of  the  night  she  knelt  by  the  child's  side,  but  in 
the  early  morning  lay  down  upon  the  couch  and  fell  asleep. 
She  was  still  asleep  when  Cranley-Chance  came  into  the 
room. 

His  entrance  roused  her,  and  she  sat  up,  rubbing  her 
eyes  and  trying  to  define  the  weight  that  clung  to  her  con- 
sciousness. 

"I've  come  to  say  good-bye  to  Vi,"  said  Chance.  He 
bent  down  and  kissed  the  child;  then  turned.  "And  to 
you,"  he  added,  "though  I  was  tempted,  by  Jove ! — though 
I  am  more  vexed  with  you,  David,  than  I  can  say." 

David  had  remembered  now;  she  had  risen  from  the 
couch,  and  was  standing  beside  it.  Her  impulse  was  to 
turn  away;  but  she  remembered  that  she  had  not  yet 
made  her  appeal  to  him,  that  it  was  still  possible  he  might 
listen  to  that  appeal ;  and  the  sense  of  justice  in  her  caused 
her  to  stand  still,  to  let  him  take  her  hand  and  kiss  her 
cheek. 

Afterwards,  looking  back,  she  was  very  glad. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

THE  days  that  followed  were  to  David  like  a  dream — a 
dream  that  had  begun  in  a  nightmare,  and  that 
ended  in  like  fashion. 

But  between  the  graphic  scenes  of  start  and  finish  waa 
a  space;  of  dreaminess  rather  than  a  dream,  because  so 
little  happened  in  it.  The  days  went  by,  seeming  not  quite 
real;  the  daily  routine  was  followed,  seeming  not  quite 
actual;  but  the  days  were  commonplace,  and  the  routine 
unbroken.  The  only  thing  that  was  different  in  David's 
outer  life  was  that  she  did  not  go  out  during  the  day  and 
denied  herself  to  visitors. 

But  though  dreaminess  lay  upon  the  surface  of  her  life 
and,  touching  the  tangible  side  of  it,  made  the  tangible 
vague,  her  mental  world  was  vividly  alive;  pulsating  with 
thought;  thickly  peopled  with  those  emigrant  reflections 
and  sentiments  which  she  had  banished  at  the  birth.  She 
did  not  seek  to  see  Judy:  she  did  not  go  to  her  mother 
again,  save  once  for  a  very  short  time :  she  sat  in  the  room 
where  Lowther  had  loosed  at  her  the  shafts  of  his  contempt, 
and  read  books  which  till  now  she  had  refused  to  read. 

She  read  in  Sydney  Ringer's  Therapeutics,1  the  book 
which  Judy  had  asked  her  to  study,  and  which  she  had,  on 
one  excuse  or  another,  arranged  to  ignore,  of  experiments 
on  human  subjects,  patients  in  London  hospitals. 

She  read  in  a  number  of  the  Revue  des  deux  Mondes, 

*App.   29. 
271 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

which  Judy  had  sent  her,  and  which  she  had  never  opened 
till  now,  the  words  of  the  distinguished  scientist,  Dr.  Charles 
Richet,  these  words :  "I  do  not  believe  that  a  single  experi- 
menter says  to  himself  .  .  .  'Here  is  an  experiment 
which  will  relieve  or  will  cure  the  disease  of  some  man/ 
No,  in  truth  he  does  not  think  of  that.  He  says  to  him- 
self:  'I  shall  clear  up  an  obscure  point;  I  will  seek  out  a 
new  fact/  And  this  scientific  curiosity  which  alone  ani- 
mates him  is  explained  by  the  high  idea  he  has  formed  of 
science.  This  is  why  we  pass  our  days  in  foetid  laboratories, 
surrounded  by  groaning  creatures,  in  the  midst  of  blood 
and  suffering,  bent  over  palpitating  entrails."1 

And  she  read,  seeing  Crile's  name  on  the  professor's 
bookshelves,  Crile's  own  account  of  his  experiments  on  dogs. 

Many  of  those  experiments  had  been  performed,  she 
knew,  in  her  husband's  laboratory,  lent  for  the  purpose,  and 
were  therefore,  by  her  husband,  approved  and  counte- 
nanced. 

She  learned  now  what  they  were,  or  some  of  them ;  heart 
and  nerve  failed  when  she  had  read  but  a  few  of  the  hun- 
dred and  forty-eight  experiments  recorded.  For  many  of 
these  experiments  consisted  of  almost  unspeakable  mutila- 
tions: of  the  "manipulation,"  after  the  dogs  were  cut  open, 
of  the  intestines,  the  whipping  of  the  intestines,  the  pouring 
of  boiling  water  on  the  intestines;  of  the  .crushing  of 
testicles ;  the  crushing  of  paws ;  the  application  of  a  Bunsen 
burner  to  nose  and  paw;  the  pulling  out  of  the  eye  and 
burning  of  the  socket;  the  tearing  out  of  organs;  the 
dilation  of  acutely  sensitive  parts.  From  time  to  time  she 
came  across  the  statement  that  "the  dog  was  not  .under 
complete  anaesthesia,"  or  that  "the  animal  struggled  on  ap- 
plication of  the  flame";  and  she  turned  from  the  accounts 

>App.  30, 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS  273 

of  the  experiments,  lasting,  some  of  them,  for  two  and 
three  hours,  to  seek  out  the  summing  up  of  results.  What 
knowledge,  what  benefits  had  been  bought  at  such  a  price? 

"Surgical  shock,  then,"  she  read,  "is  due  mainly  to  a 
vasomotor  impairment  or  breakdown.  The  cardiac  and 
respiratory  factors  may  be  of  considerable  importance. 
However,  the  main  effect  is  on  the  vasomotor  mechanism. 
If  the  foregoing  be  true,  it  will  be  seen  how  much  more 
important  is  prevention  than  treatment.  Prevention  of 
shock  may  best  be  accomplished  by  taking  into  account  all 
the  known  physiological  functions  of  every  tissue  and  organ 
of  the  body  in  a  way  that  would  suggest  itself  to  any  prac- 
tical surgeon.  While  the  cause  may  be  local,  the  treatment 
must  be  general.  It  would  seem  to  be  desirable  to  direct 
special  attention  to  the  distinction  made  between  collapse 
and  shock.  The  result  of  action  is  reaction:  of  rest  is 
restoration."1 

There  were  no  italics  on  the  printed  pages,  but  David's 
mind  italicised  certain  portions  of  the  experimenter's  con- 
clusions as  she  read;  and  then  returned  with  astonishment 
to  consider  them.  The  futile  puerility  of  it  all  amazed 
her.  Prevention  more  important  than  treatment!  And 
that  prevention  to  be  accomplished  in  a  way  that  would 
suggest  itself  to  any  practical  surgeon !  Action  would  re- 
sult in  reaction,  and  rest  in  restoration!  Were  these  the 
scientific  data  that  had  been  gained  by  a  hundred  and  fifty 
barbarous  experiments?  Gained?  No,  for  the  most  ele- 
mentary knowledge,  the  crudest  common  sense,  could  surely 
have  pronounced  these  platitudes  without  resorting  to  such 
means. 

That  all  vivisectors  were  not  like  the  author  of  the  book 
she  was  well  aware;  even  in  the  reaction  of  her  present 

JApp.  31. 


PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

attitude  she  preserved  a  sufficient  impartiality  of  judgment 
to  remember  that  there  were  men  marching  under  the 
same  flag  as  that  author,  whose  motives  seemed  to  them- 
selves humane,  whose  methods  were  not  wilfully  barbarous, 
whose  scientific  achievements  were  not  grotesquely  out  of 
proportion  to  the  suffering  they  entailed.  But  remembering 
all  this;  retaining  still,  even  to  a  greater  extent  than  she 
was  conscious  of,  that  reverence  for  science  which  had  been 
instilled  into  her  as  a  child  and  fostered  throughout  her 
life;  and  longing,  indeed,  to  find  justification  for  the  acts 
and  the  principles  of  her  father  and  her  husband,  she  found 
herself  unable  to  doubt  that  a  system,  a  body  of  men,  which 
countenanced  such  cruelties  as  those  which  she  had  just 
read  about,  was  a  system  more  productive  of  abuses  than 
advantage;  a  company  whose  vision,  individual  and  cor- 
porate, had  been  perverted  by  the  aims  which  controlled  it. 

And  she  realised,  reading  and  thinking  during  these 
strange  days,  that  there  is  in  man  something  more  im- 
portant than  the  desire  for  material,  commonly  called  scien- 
tific, knowledge;  that  there  is  for  man  a  higher  destiny 
than  the  conquest  of  pain,  or  even  the  conquest  of  Xature. 
Vaguely,  to  be  sure,  and  slowly,  the  realisation  dawned"  in 
her  consciousness  that  the  spirit  of  man  is  a  reality  and  not 
a  theological  conception,  and  that  the  development  of  that 
spirit  means  the  only  real  advance  of  humanity. 

In  the  evenings,  when  the  curtains  were  drawn  within 
and  the  gas  lamps  glimmered  without,  when  Vi  had  been 
read  to,  soothed,  and,  if  possible,  amused,  David  went  out 
into  that  region,  peopled,  solitary,  teeming  with  contra- 
dictory elements  and  antagonistic  forces,  known  as  the 
streets  of  London;  the  region  which  Sidney  Gale  in  his 
student  days  had  frequented ;  facing,  defying,  hiding  from, 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  275 

the  same  problems  which  David  now  was  facing;  to  find 
and  accept  her  soul's  solution  of  them. 

And  walking  thus,  choosing  the  quieter,  half-deserted 
streets  which  lay  around  her  home,  not  only  the  problems, 
but  her  own  course  in  regard  to  them,  became  clear  to  her. 
She  would  not  lead  such  a  life  as  her  mother  had  led ;  she 
would  not  sacrifice  her  convictions  to  conventions,  or  ac- 
quiesce In  practices  which  had  become  abhorrent  to  her. 
On  the  other  hand,  she  was  convinced  of  the  entire  hope- 
lessness of  seeking,  in  any  way,  to  alter  her  husband's  views. 
One  of  three  things  therefore  must  happen.  Either  she 
must  be  allowed  openly  to  declare  her  opinions  and  to  work 
in  support  of  them;  or,  holding  fast  to  those  opinions 
while  Cranley  maintained  his,  she  would  abandon  active 
propaganda  if  he  would  abjure  vivisectional  experiment; 
or,  she  must  do  as  Claude  Bernard's  daughter  had  done, 
leave  him.  The  question  of  the  custody  of  Vi  hardly  dis- 
turbed her ;  she  would  have  the  child,  of  course,  for  Cranley 
would  not  know  what  to  do  with  her. 

There  were  times  when  she  seemed  to  see  herself  living 
away  from  her  husband ;  times  when  she  cherished'  the  hope 
that  he  would  consent  to  compromise;  rare  moments  when 
she  dreamed  that  she  might  win  him  away  from  the  ugly 
side  of  science  to  the  standpoint  to  which  she  had  herself 
been  brought.  Such  moments  died  almost  before  she  knew 
they  were  in  existence;  but  one  evening,  as  she  entered 
Manchester  Square  from  Hinde  Street,  the  sense  that  it 
might  be  possible  definitely  to  influence  her  husband  lifted 
her  for  a  few  instants  to  a  pinnacle  of  hope!  In  the  house 
the  pinnacle  perished,  and  she  fell  into  a  gulf  of  tumultu- 
ous foreboding,  shrinking  from-  the  contest  which  lay  ahead 
of  her,  dreading  the  day  of  Cranley's  return. 

In  Vi's  room  she  found  no  consolation,  for  Vi  was  in 


276  PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

pain,  restless  and  unhappy.  She  was  able  at  last  to  give 
some  ease  to  the  poor  little  body,  to  soothe  in  a  measure  the 
strained  nerves;  and  seeing  that  the  child  was  disposed  to 
doze,  she  went  into  the  next  room  to  stand  for  a  few  min- 
utes by  an  open  window. 

Outside,  in  the  strtets,  sire  had  had  a  glimpse  of  hope; 
she  longed  again  to  look  forth  into  the  night.  She  would 
find,  perhaps,  if  not  hope,  courage;  if  not  courage,  calm; 
for,  as  she  walked,  calm  had  seemed'  to'  her  to  be  the 
evening's  special  attribute.  Calm  it  still  was,  but  there  was 
movement  too,  and,  besides  the  street  sounds,  a  low  soft 
pattering.  A  thin  rain  dropped;  a  faint  wind  wandered; 
the  night  was  full  of  sighs. 


CHAPTER 

NEXT  morning  came  the  telegram: — 
"Your    husband    very    ill.      Come    at    once. — 
STKACHAN." 

Strachan  was  the  name  of  Cranley's  host,  David  knew. 

Had  the  message  been  less  peremptory,  she  might  have 
hesitated,  uncertain  whether  to  stay  with  the  child  whom 
she  never  left,  or  to  go  to  the  husband  from  whom  she 
was  half  estranged;  but  the  words  on  the  thin  piece  of 
paper  were  a  command,  and  after  the  first  instant's  doubt 
she  did  not  think  of  disobeying  it. 

She  sent  a  message  to  Harley  Street,  told  her  maid  to 
pack  a  portmanteau,  rushed  out  and  bought  a  fresh  con- 
signment of  toys  for  Vi>  and  soon  was  on  her  way  to  Euston 
to  catch  the  two  o'clock  train  north. 

Borne  along  in  that  train,  all  her  thoughts  were  at  first 
a  question.  Was  it  an  accident,  or  illness,  in  the  ordinary 
meaning  of  the  word,  illness  sudden  and  severe,  that  was  the 
cause  of  her  summons  ?  Questions  such  as  these,  question;? 
separated  from  reply  by  hours  of  suspense,  will  go  on 
knocking  at  heart  and.  brain,  all  the  more  peristent  in  that 
they  find  no  answer.  But  in  David's  mind,  at  this  time, 
were  many  problems ;  and  after  a  time  she  passed  from  sur- 
mise to  reflection. 

It  was  twelve  years  since  she  had  married  Cranley- 
Chance,  and  she  went  again  through  those  years,  treading 
the  quick  path  of  memory.  In  the  light  of  greater  experi- 

277 


278  PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

ence,  she  recognised  how  far  she  had  been  from  what  is 
ordinarily  called  love  when  she  became  his  wife;  she  had 
known  it  at  the  time;  she  knew  it  more  surely  now.  She 
had  respected  her  husband,  and  been  flattered  by  the  fact 
that  she  had  been  able  to  attract  so  celebrated  a  man.  The 
position  he  had  won  for  himself  appealed  to  her  pride  and 
ministered  to  her  ambition;  and  he  had  evoked  in  her  the 
admiration  which  she  always  accorded  to  strength  and  ca~ 
pacity.  But  love,  on  her  part,  had  been  altogether  absent 
from  her  married  life,  and  affection,  during  the  first  years 
of  it,  meagre.  Then  had  come  Vi's  illness,  the  hope  of  her 
recovery,  the  drawing  nearer  to  Cranley  on  the  common 
ground  of  that  hope.  The  hope  had  never  blossomed,  but 
the  sympathy  which  was  an  offshoot  of  it  had  bloomed  into 
a  fuller  affection  than  Chance,  in  the  first  days  of  disap- 
pointed longing,  had  dared  to  hope  for. 

In  the  glaring  light  'of  her  experience  at  the  Empire 
Institue,  thinly  veiled,  slightly  softened  by  the  mist  and 
mystery  of  those  hours  so  near  and  so  obscure  which  lay 
before  her,  David  looked  at  thnt  affection.  It  had  been 
real;  not  vastly  deep,  but  ess*.. atially  true;  so  much  she 
recognised.  Was  it  dead  ?  Had  it  been  destroyed  with  the 
belief  on  which,  partly,  it  had  been  founded?  She  sought 
the  answer'  horiestly,  and  found  it :  No.  For  David,  know- 
ing full  well  that  the  man  who  was  her  husband  was  the 
same  man-  whom  she  had  watched  at  work  in  his  laboratory, 
was  unable,  actually,  to  identify  the  two :  in  her  feeling,  if 
not  in  her  thought,  Yi's  father  was  distinct  from  the  famous 
vivisector.  To  her,  that  vivisector  remained  an  actual 
being,  indeed,  yet  partaking  of  the  nature  of  a  phantasm ; 
of  the  essence  of  the  nightmare  in  which  he  had  figured; 
living,  terrible,  potent,  but  hardly  a  man. 

And  in  truth,  the  feeling  in  her  was  justified  by  fact; 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  279 

since  man,  overstepping  certain  limits  of  his  being,  becomes 
either  more  or  less  than  himself.  Within  those  limits  lie 
the  attributes  of  humanity,  and  he  may  strike  the  gamut  of 
the  whole,  from  brute  instincts  to  sublimity.  Beyond  those 
limits  stretches,  on  the  one  hand,  the  region  of  divinity ;  on 
the  other,  the  realm  of  that  spiritual  wickedness  which  can 
have  its  habitat  only  in  high  places.  The  one  region  is 
entered"  when  intellect,  touching  the  highest  point  attain- 
able by  human  brain,  transcends,  in  love  made  perfect,  the 
confines  of  mortality;  the  other  is  reached  when  intellect, 
in  the  pride  of  its  own  possibilities,  divests  itself  of  all 
relationship  with  love. 

It  was  with  that  dehumanised  atmosphere  about  him  that 
David  had  seen  her  husband  in  the  laboratory,  and,  seeing 
him  thus,  had  found  him,  in  some  indefinable  way,  different 
from  the  man  who  was  her  daily  companion.  She  did  not 
seek  in  these  waiting  hours  to  puzzle  out  the  reason  of  the 
difference;  she  tried  only  to  shut  out  from  her  mind  the 
pictures  which  were  bound  up  with  it,  and  to  reinforce 
with  other  pictures  the  tenderness  which  she  had  once 
given  to  her  husband. 

Rugby,  Preston,  York.  People  got  out  of  the  train; 
trays,  cups,  and  baskets  were  borne  up  and  down  the  plat- 
form. Would  she  have  tea  ?  No,  David  wanted  no  tea. 

At  last — Glasgow ! 

A  manservant  was  waiting,  looking  out  for  her.  Was 
she  Mrs.  Cranley-Chance  ?  He  had  a  carriage. 

The  professor?  He  was  very  ill,  no  doubt;  and  no 
better.  The  man  was  vague  in  his  replies,  unsatisfactory, 
seemed  not  to  know  what  was  the  matter. 

When  she  reached  Mr.  Strachan's  house,  Mr.  Strachan 
himself  met  her  in  the  hall,  took  her  into  a  room  at  the 
end  of  it,  begged  her  to  sit  down. 


280  PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

Her  husband  was  no  better;  he,  Mr.  Strachan,  was  afraid 
— in  fact,  they  had  decided,  he  and  the  doctors,  that  it  was 

better — it  would  be  only  painful She  could  not  see 

him. 

"Why?  What  is  it?  Tell  me,  please,"  said  David,  "at 
once." 

Then  he  told  her;  of  the  suffering,  the  hopelessness,  the 
inevitable  end.  He  did  not  tell  her,  because  no  one  could 
tell  her,  since  no  one  knew,  save  Cranley-Chance  alone,  of 
the  worse  suffering  which  intervened  between  the  first  stab 
of  suspicion  and  the  certainty  of  despair. 

In  the  last  few  days  David's  husband  had  been  through 
a  martyrdom,  all  the  more  acute  in  that  the  meaning  of 
his  symptoms  was  made  plain  to  him  by  professional  knowl- 
edge. That  slight  mark  caused  by  the  teeth  of  the  dog  at 
Les  Avants  had  entirely  passed  away,  leaving  no  trace  to 
vision  or  sensation.  It  was  at  the  point  of  the  Pasteur 
inoculation  that  the  pain  declared  itself,  the  tingling,  the 
redness,  and  the  swelling;  it  was  from  the  poison  becoming 
active  at  that  point,  that  the  discomfort,  the  difficulty  in 
swallowing,  all  the  signs  which  Chance  knew  and  recog- 
nised, drew  their  being.1 

Strachan  thought  his  guest  changed,  melancholy,  ill  at 
ease ;  this  man  of  morose  manner  and  strange  ways  was  not 
the  man  he  had  known.  He  had  looked  forward  to  this 
visit,  to  talking  over  old  times  and  future  discoveries;  but 
the  deeds  of  the  past,  the  science  of  the  future,  had  no  more 
interest  for  the  miserable  man,  who  strove  to  hide  his 
misery. 

Cranley-Chance's  first  lecture  was  lacking  in  coherence, 
feeble  in  delivery;  his  host  and  the  brilliant  audience  as- 

'App.  32. 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS  281 

sembled  to  listen  to  him  were  alike  disappointed.  The 
second  lecture  was  never  given. 

Downstairs  David  waited,  unoccupied,  appalled,  with 
nothing  to  do  but  wait.  Waiting  through  those  last  days, 
she  was  rent  with  pity  for  the  man  she  might  not  see. 
Those  pictures  he  had  painted  in  her  mind  were  wiped  out, 
for  the  time  being,  by  another  picture,  dim  with  the  mys- 
tery, weird  with  the  horror,  that  clings  to  the  unknown; 
the  picture  of  her  husband  in  the  grasp  of  the  disease  which 
had  seized  him  as  he  sought  to  flee  from  it.  Now  and  again 
Mr.  Strachan  came  in  with  vague  reports,  which  gave  no 
distinctness  to  the  picture :  once  or  twice  sounds  from  that 
room  at  the  top  of  the  house  cast  flashes  of  terrible  light 
upon  it. 

If  in  those  hours  David,  by  giving  her  life  for  her  hus- 
band, could  have  saved  him,  she  would  have  given  it.  She 
had  no  thought  of  him  in  that  waiting  space,  save  the 
desire  to  comfort,  the  longing  to  aid  him  in  his  agony.  Had 
she  been  allowed,  she  would  have  braved  the  mystery  of 
that  picture  which  was  all  she  had  to  look  at,  and  gone  to 
him ;  but  Strachan  and  the  doctors  would  not  listen  to  her 
pleas.  She  could  do  no  good,  she  was  told,  would  only  be 
in  the  way.  The  patient — that  was  what  they  called  him 
now — the  patient  himself,  would  rather  she  did  not  come. 

Pity  and  terror  possessed  her  all  the  while  the  tragedy 
went  on.  When  it  was  over  she  wept  as  she  had  wept  not 
long  before  at  her  mother's  knee. 


CHAPTER  XLI 

JUDY  was  jubilant.  Her  dear  David  had  come  abroad 
with  her,  and  she  and  her  dear  David  were  at  one  on 
the  question  which  lay  nearest  her  heart. 

They  did  not  discuss  the  question ;  did  not  often  refer 
to  it  even;  the  horror  of  that  which  had  brought  about 
David's  change  of  attitude  was  still  dark  in  her  memory, 
and  it  was  Judy's  desire,  and  her  constant  endeavour,  to 
lead  her  friend's  mind  away  from  the  thoughts  which  dis- 
tressed her.  David,  appreciating  that  endeavour,  did  her 
best  to  back  it  up.  She  was  not,  by  nature,  morbid;  her 
healthy  physique  and  abundant  vitality  helped  her  through 
much  that  might  have  wrought  havoc  in  a  mind  hampered 
by  a  weakly  body;  and  the  keynote  of  her  personality  was 
joyousness. 

Yet  she  was  keenly  sensitive,  acutely  impressionable,  and 
as  she  walked  up  the  long  straight  road  which  leads  from 
the  town  of  Cannes  to  the  Hotel  d'Angleterre,  her  face 
showed  signs  of  the  suffering  she  had  passed  through.  She 
was  dressed  in  deep  mourning,  but  no  longer  wore  her 
widow's  weeds.  At  first  she  had  worn  them  in  their  com- 
pleteness, for  Lady  Lowther,  who  had  never  liked  her  son- 
in-law,  was  particular  in  the  matter  of  posthumous  respect, 
and  David  accepted,  without  question,  her  mother's  decree. 
Horror  was  still  upon  her,  and  the  fact  that  whenever  she 
drove  out  she  was  hampered  by  a  veil  which  she  constantly 
sat  upon,  did  not  seem  either  to  add  to  or  detract  from  it. 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  283 

Then,  seven  months  later,  when  the  inconvenience  of  her 
garments  was  beginning  to  obtrude  itself  upon  her  atten- 
tion, she  wore  them  in  an  altered  spirit,  with  a  sense  of 
congruity,  with  an  almost  eager  willingness.  But  she  wore 
them,  not  for  Cranley,  but  for  Vi.  And  it  was  of  Vi  she 
was  thinking  now,  and  of  the  blank,  wide  and  dark,  which 
the  little  suffering  child  had  left  behind  her. 

David's  soul  had  been  dark  for  a  time,  and  the  craving 
tenderness  which  had  no  longer  any  outlet,  was  as  a  tu- 
multuous flood  engulfing  her  consciousness.  Then,  when 
the  winter  months  added  their  dreariness  to  her  inward 
desolation,  came  Judy  and  carried  her  off  by  force;  and, 
having  conveyed  her  safely  to  clear  skies,  sunshine,  and  an 
azure  sea,  sought  to  lift  her  out  of  the  flood  with  counsels 
of  robust  wisdom.  Judith  did  not  speak  of  Cranley-Chance, 
of  his  death  or  the  scenes  which  had  preceded  it;  but  she 
spoke  constantly  of  Vi,  knowing  well  that  it  was  just  of  Vi 
that  Vi's  mother  found  it  hard  to  speak;  till  at  last,  in 
answering  words,  the  flood  at  David's  heart  found  vent. 

It  was  the  end  of  April  now,  eight  months  since  Vi  had 
died,  and  spring,  in  this  forward  southern  land,  was  hurry- 
ing into  summer.  It  was  time  to  be  moving  to  a  cooler 
climate,  and  David  and  Judith  had  decided  to  spend  a  few 
weeks  in  North  Italy  before  going  back  to  England.  David 
had  been  taking  her  last  look  at  the  Mediterranean  in  the 
cooler  hour  that  comes  with  the  sunset,  and  came  back  to 
the  hotel  intending  to  finish  the  preparations  for  to- 
morrow's journey. 

But  when  she  reached  her  room,  the  preparations  were 
delayed,  for  she  found  a  letter  from  Lady  Lowther  waiting 
for  her,  and  sat  down  to  read  it  before  taking  off  her  hat. 
Her  mother  did  not  write  long  letters,  and  this  letter  was 
not  long ;  yet  she  sat  with  it  in  her  hand  till  the  bell  rang 


PRIESTS   OF    PROGRESS 

for  table  d'hote,  and  when  Judy  knocked  at  her  door,  was 
not  ready  to  go  down. 

"What  have  you  been  up  to — packing?"  Judy  asked, 
coming  into  the  room. 

"No,  just  lazing,  I'm  afraid." 

"Any  letters?" 

"One  from  mother,  that's  all.    Had  you?" 

"Nothing  personal;  official  ones,  of  course.  It's  high 
time  I  was  back,  David.  Deputies  are  all  very  well,  but 
they  really  give  one  almost  as  much  work — certainly  quite 
as  much  writing — as  if  one  were  on  the  spot." 

"I  should  feel  guilty,"  said  David,  "if  I  did  not  know 
that  you  needed  a  change  quite  as  much  as  I  did." 

"Perhaps.  I  was  getting  a  bit  stale,  I  do  think.  But 
I'm  quite  ready  now  to  plunge  into  the  fray  again." 

"Would  you  rather  go  straight  home — give  up  Italy ?" 

"No,  because  I  think  it's  better  for  you  to  see  a  little 
of  Italy  before  you  go  back.  You'd  like  it,  wouldn't  you?" 

"Oh,  I?  I  believe  I  should  like  never  to  go  back  at  all. 
So  a  few  weeks  more  or  less  won't  make  much  difference." 

"I'll  tell  you  what  we'll  do,"  said  Judy  after  a  minute's 
silence.  "We'll  go  to  Venice  for  a  week,  then  just  have  a 
look  at  Florence  and  Pisa,  and  then  make  for  Paris.  There 
is  a  good  deal  I  can  do  there,  ai)d  while  I  work,  you  can 
sight-see.  You  don't  know  Paris  at  allj  do  y«u?" 

"Hardly  at  all,  so  I  should  like  that  very  much." 

David  gave  a  little  sigh  of  relief;  she  was  in  the  mood 
to  like  anything  which  put  off  her  return  to  England ;  and 
she  left  Cannes  the  next  day  feeling  that  a  sure  barrier  of 
weeks  lay  between  her  and  home. 

Judith  knew  Venice  well,  but  it  was  new  to  David,  and 
the  delight  she  took  in  it  lifted  her  for  a  time  above  the 
level  of  troubled  and  troublesome  thoughts.  She  had 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  285 

sketched  a  little  at  Cannes,  and  here  she  was  fired  to  greater 
effort,  more  careful  endeavour.  Painting  day  by  day,  her 
girlhood's  years,  her  girlhood's  ambitions  and  intentions 
leapt  up  at  her  out  of  the  past.  Sometimes  the  bridge 
between  then  and  now;  her  wifehood,  motherhood,  the 
pictures  that  flamed  out  in  her  memory,  seemed  like  the 
phantoms  of  a  dream,  unsubstantial,  illusory;  and  youth 
looked  no  further  back  than  yesterday.  Sometimes  she 
wished  that  it  might  be  so,  that  the  bridge  might  crumble 
into  nothingness,  that  she  might  find  her  girlhood  a  reality 
and  her  life  all  before  her;  and  then  again  she  knew  that 
there  were  parts  of  her  past  she  could  not  bear  to  lose.  She 
was  able  now  to  face  that  past  impartially,  and,  looking 
back,  found  herself  able,  too,  to  look  forward. 

Yet  here  at  Venice,  she  chose  rather  to  look  back  than 
forward.  The  waves  of  past  storms  were  sinking  out  of 
sight;  but  ahead  were  ripples — or  so  it  seemed  to  her — 
which  might  raise  themselves  to  billows  and  sweep  her  from 
the  still  waters  of  her  present  peace  into  the  tumult  of  fresh 
emotions.  In  Lady  Lowther's  letter  she  had  first  caught 
the  murmur  of  those  waves,  and  the  sound  bore  a  subtle 
charm ;  but  it  was  just  the  charm,  the  hint  of  magic  in  the 
murmur,  which  caused  her  to  shrink  from  the  waves'  ap- 
proach. Storms  she  felt  that  she  could  face,  and  she  was 
prepared  to  brave  her  father's  sarcasms  and  her  friends' 
disapproval  by  espousing  an  unpopular  cause.  She  was  not 
without  the  fighting  instinct,  or  the  chivalry  which  prefers 
to  fight  with  the  minority;  and  in  battle  she  hoped  to  find 
an  interest  which  would  help  to  fill  her  life.  Happiness  she 
did  not  deliberately  look  for;  and  now  happiness  stood,  as 
it  were,  at  the  side  of  the  life  she  had  planned  out;  stood 
and  beckoned. 

Long  ago,  happiness  of  the  kind  that  to  a  woman  is 


286  PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

supreme  had  shown  itself  in  swift,  dissolving  vision ;  it  was 
linked  in  her  mind  with  a  balcony  that  overlooked  a  London 
street,  and  the  scent  of  flowers  floating  out  from  a  room 
behind.  She  had  refused  all  through  the  years  of  her  mar- 
riage to  look  back  at  it;  though  the  sordid  curtain  which 
had  at  first  hidden  it  from  her  eyes  had  long  ago  been  rent 
into  nothingness;  and  though  it  had  come  from  time  to 
time  and  peeped,  as  it  were,  over  her  shoulder.  And  now, 
lo!  instead  of  standing  behind  her,  it  was  there  ahead;  a 
dim  outline,  to  be  sure,  but  an  outline  that  showed  a  raised, 
inviting  hand. 

Lady  Lowther  had  sketched  the  outline  first,  with  a 
stroke  or  two  of  her  pen,  a  couple  of  sentences  hi  the  letter 
which  David  had  received  on  the  evening  before  she  left 
Cannes. 

"Dr.  Gale  was  here  this  afternoon,  and  we  talked  of  you. 
I  am  sure  he  cares  for  you  still."  Those  were  the  sentences 
which  David  had  read  with  a  little  sudden  rush  of  joy,  and 
which,  as  she  had  re-read  them,  as  she  had  thought  about 
them  since,  had  caused  her  to  shrink  from  the  thought  of 
going  back  to  London.  For  she  could  never  marry  Sidney 
Gale;  he  belonged  to  one  camp  and  she  to  the  other;  they 
could  meet  only  to  cross  swords. 

For  the  second  time  she  must  turn  her  back  on  the  hap- 
piness she  had  missed  long  ago ;  and,  knowing  what  she  had 
to  do,  she  shrank  from  what  she  might  undergo  in  the 
doing  it.  It  had  not  been  very  hard  to  crush  that  girl's 
love,  hardly  developed  beyond  the  bud  of  fancy,  and  a  cur- 
rent of  opposing  feeling  had  helped  to  sweep  it  away.  But 
now,  if  it  should  rise  afresh,  it  might  be  of  robuster  growth, 
strong  with  the  strength  of  her  own  maturity,  hard  to 
destroy.  The  only  way  was  to  fight  it  from  the  first,  not 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS  287 

to  give  in  to  the  thought  of  it;  to  avoid,  above  all  things, 
everything  which  might  initiate  or  aid  its  growth.  David, 
setting  her  face  towards  England,  determined  that  she 
would  have  nothing  at  all  to  do  with  Sidney  Gale. 


CHAPTER  XLII 

AFTER  the  old-world  atmosphere  that  clings  to  Italy, 
the  attractions  of  Paris  seemed,  all  and  only,  those 
of  luxury,  of  convenience,  of  stir  and  movement,  of  modem 
brilliance.  That  was  at  first.  By  and  by  David  made 
acquaintance  with  the  museums  and  galleries,  with  streets 
and  quarters  which  lie  outside  the  range  of  the  shopping 
tourist,  with  the  encircling  beauties  of  St.  Cloud,  of  Ver- 
sailles, of  Fontainebleau. 

She  was  partly  aided,  partly  hindered,  in  her  expeditions 
and  rambles  by  Edgar  Hall,  whose  card  was  brought  to  her 
two  days  after  she  and  Judy  had  arrived  at  the  Hotel 
St.  James. 

"How  tiresome!"  was  her  first  thought;  and  her  second: 
"I  wonder  how  he  knew  I  was  here?" 

She  gave  vent  to  this  latter  thought  almost  as  she  shook 
hands  with  Hall. 

"I  had  a  letter  from  Percy  Burdon,  and  he  told  me." 

"The  irrepressible  Percy!"  exclaimed  David  to  herself; 
aloud  she  said:  "Do  you  still  correspond  with  him?" 

"He  corresponds  with  me,  and  occasionally  I  write  to 
him.  That,  I'm  afraid,  is  the  position." 

"It  was  very  kind  of  you  to  come." 

"I  could  not  let  you  be  in  Paris  without  paying  my 
respects.  I  have  always  had  a  great  admiration  and  respect 
for  your  father.  I  respected  and  admired  your  husband." 

Hall  spoke  accurately;  David  had  always  been  for  him 


Lowther's  daughter,  Chance's  wife ;  never  the  girl  who  had 
been  Burden's  favourite  companion,  the  woman  whom  both 
Gale  and  Chance  had  loved.  He  had  come  to  see  her  simply 
because  he  looked  upon  her  as  a  sort  of  female  appendage 
of  two  scientific  men,  to  whose  gifts  and  work  he  desired 
to  pay  tribute.  But,  as  he  talked,  her  own  individual  per- 
sonality began  to  dawn  upon  him ;  something  of  the  charm 
which,  years  ago  in  her  girlhood,  had  appealed  to  Cranley- 
Chance,  appealed  now,  vaguely,  to  Edgar  Hall.  He  had 
intended  to  pay  her  a  formal  visit,  feeling  that  when  that 
visit  was  paid  the  whole  duty  of  a  busy  man  had  been 
accomplished ;  he  found  himself,  before  he  went  away,  ask- 
ing her  if  she  would  like  to  see  through  the  Pasteur  Insti- 
tute. 

He  was  three  quarters  relieved  and  one  quarter  disap- 
pointed when  David  refused.  On  the  way  home  he  found 
himself  wondering  why  she  had  flushed  over  her  refusal, 
why  in  her  speech,  easy  and  direct  throughout  the  inter- 
view, there  had  been  a  spasm  of  hesitation. 

"No,  thank  you."  The  flush  had  come  as  she  began  to 
speak.  "I  don't  care" — and  here  had  come  the  hesitation 
— "to — to  see  such  things." 

Yet  Cranley-Chance,  and  Lowther  too,  had  always  told 
him  that  she  was  more  keenly  and  more  intelligently  inter- 
ested in  science  than  most  women.  "I  don't  care — to — to 
see  such  things."  Ah,  perhaps — Hall  laughed  to  himself 
— perhaps  she  thought  she  was  going  to  be  shown  the  sub- 
jects of  his  experiments.  What  an  idea !  Should  he  write 
and  tell  her  that  visitors  to  the  Institute  saw  nothing  that 
could  shock  the  most  delicate  sensibilities?  He  did  not 
think  any  the  worse  of  her  for  shrinking  from  the  sight  of 
pain :  she  was  a  woman,  and  in  women  nothing  much  mat- 
tered. But  what  an  absurd  idea ! 


290  PRIESTS   OF    PROGRESS 

When  David  told  Judith  of  the  invitation,  Judith  said 
at  once,  "You  should  have  gone.  Always  see  everything 
you  can." 

"I  don't  suppose  I  should  have  seen  much." 

"No,  of  course  you  wouldn't.  Nobody  ever  does,  any- 
where. You  may  go  through  the  laboratories  of  the  big 
wholesale  chemists  and  through  the  Stansted  farms,  and 
come  out  saying,  'How  painless!  how  delightful!  how 
beautifully  kept!  how  admirably  managed!'  and  for  all 
that  has  been  shown  you,  so  they  are.  Nevertheless,  it  is 
useful  sometimes  to  see  even  the  outside  of  the  cup  and 
platter." 

"I  thought  it  might  lead  to  controversy,  and  I  don't 
want  controversy — with  Edgar  Hall.  No  doubt  Percy  has 
told  him  what  has  happened,  but  there's  no  good  in  dis- 
cussing it." 

"Still,  discussion " 

"I'll  do,"  David  broke  in,  "whatever  you  like,  and  I'll 
talk  too,  when  talking  is  likely  to  be  of  any  value.  But 
ifs  absolute  waste  of  energy  to  talk  to  people  like  Edgar 
Hall." 

"I  agree,  so  I'll  say  no  more,  though  if  it  had  been 

I "  Judith  laughed.  "But  of  course,  he  would  never 

have  paid  me  the  compliment." 

But  Percy  Burdon,  in  writing  to  Hall,  had  not  men- 
tioned his  cousin's  change  of  attitude,  and  Hall,  when  he 
saw  David  again,  did  not  speak  of  his  scientific  interests, 
and  did  not,  therefore,  discover  it  for  himself.  For  he  did 
see  her  again;  not  once,  but  many  times.  There  was  a 
lull  at  this  time  in  his  labours;  that  is  to  say,  that  he  was 
more  engaged  in  thinking  out  processes,  weighing  possibili- 
ties, than  in  performing  actual  experiments;  and  he  found 


PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS  291 

it  in  no  wise  inimical  to  reflection  to  escort  David  to  remote 
parts  of  the  city  and  its  surroundings. 

The  joint  rambles  began  by  his  offering  to  pilot  her 
through  all  that  remained  of  the  once  famous  Latin  Quar- 
ter, and  David,  touched  by  what  she  considered  his  gener- 
osity towards  her  pervert  self,  accepted  the  offer.  Then  he 
suggested,  in  such  hours  as  his  professor's  work  left  free, 
expedition  after  expedition,  and  David,  finding  no  plausible 
excuse  for  refusing  his  company,  accepted  it  sometimes 
when  she  would  rather  have  been  alone.  She  was  a  woman 
who,  when  intent  upon  observation,  spoke  little,  who,  when 
enjoying  artistically,  cared  to  speak  of  her  enjoyment  only 
to  a  companion  with  whom  she  was  entirely  in  sympathy; 
and  there  was  a  fundamental  difference  of  outlook  between 
herself  and  Edo-ar  Hall  which  forbade,  she  felt,  any  but  a 
purely  surface  intercourse.  Nevertheless,  seeing  that  he  did 
not  approach  controversial  topics,  seeing  that  he  was  con- 
tent to  be  silent  when  silence  was  the  only  satisfactory 
substitute  for  intimate  speech,  she  did  not  find  it  in  her 
heart  to  refuse  the  escort  he  offered. 

To  tentative  remonstrance  on  Judy's  part  she  turned  a 
deaf  ear.  "What  harm  am  I  doing?"  she  asked.  "It  isn't 
as  if  there  were  any  principle  involved  in  walking  down 
a  boulevard  with  a  man  who  recognises  that  you  hate  what 
he  most  approves  of ;  it  isn't  as  if  I  denied  my  convictions. 
But  I  no  more  compromise  my  cause  by  putting  up  with 
his  company — for  that's  what  it  comes  to — than  he  injures 
his — unfortunately — by  frequenting  mine.  If  Pm  doing 
anything,  I'm  doing  good,  by  showing  him  how  nice  an 
anti-vivisectionist  can  be." 

Judy  shook  her  head,  and  David  did  not  appreciate  the 
significance  of  her  rejoinder  that  she  might  perhaps  have 
taken  the  same  view  at  David's  age. 


292  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

Hall,  meanwhile,  was  quite  unconscious  that  in  avoiding 
the  mention  of  his  particular  interests,  he  was  avoiding 
pitfalls  of  opinion.  He  cared  to  discuss  science  only  with 
scientists,  and  the  fact  that  David  did  not  try  to  talk  up  to 
him,  as  he  would  have  put  it,  impressed  him  favourably. 
He  had  always  told  himself  that  there  were  but  two  kinds 
of  women  he  could  marry :  one  possessing  the  qualities  of 
a  domestic  mistress  and  no  others;  the  other,  one  of  those 
rare  women  who  would  sacrifice  sex  to  science  and  enter 
into  his  pursuits  with  the  zeal  and  hardihood  of  a  comrade. 
Now  he  began  to  think  that  there  might  be  a  third  type; 
a  woman  independent  enough  to  have  pursuits  of  her  own, 
intelligent  enough  to  follow  them  without  making  demands 
on  his  time  and  attention ;  feminine  in  her  allures  (he  used 
the  expressive  French  word  to  himself) ;  discreet  and  tact- 
ful; physically  desirable. 

Hall,  occupied  with  the  study  of  the  human  body  as  a 
complex  organism,  had  had  no  time  to  give  to  the  consider- 
ation of  relations  between  the  sexes  other  than  those  directly 
animal.  He  was  acquainted  with  the  secrets  of  a  woman's 
frame,  but  ignorant-  of  those  appertaining  to  her  nature; 
he  could  discourse  upon  her  physical  instincts,  but  knew 
nothing  of  her  intuitional  tastes.  It  was  then,  perhaps,  not 
to  be  wondered  at  that  he  was  imperceptive  of  David's  at- 
titude towards  him;  that  he  measured  her  feelings  by  his 
own ;  that  he  construed  her  passive  acceptance  of  his  com- 
panionship into  an  active  wish  to  perpetuate  it.  Borne  on 
by  desire,  he  failed  to  recognise  that  she  remained  station- 
ary in  indifference;  becoming  restless,  her  tranquillity 
seemed  to  him  the  counterfeit  calm  of  unavowed  expecta- 
tion. 

Yet  his  heart  beat  as  it  beat  when  fresh  discovery  was 
imminent,  the  day  that  he  entered  her  presence  with  the 


293 

intention  of  definitely  ratifying  what  seemed  to  him  the 
bond  between  them. 

It  was  late  afternoon,  and  David  eat  in  the  window,  the 
clear  spring  light  falling  on  her  brown  hair  and  charming 
face,  on  the  daintiness  of  her  gown  and  the  bunch  of  violets 
she  wore  at  her  breast.  Hall  was  not  artist  enough  to  know 
that  the  violdts  were  fastened  with  an  artist  hand,  that  the 
black  dress  with  its  touches  of  white  was  prettily  made  and 
prettily  worn :  he  only  knew  that  the  woman  in  the  window 
was  sweet  to  look  upon,  and  that  he — all  man  for  the 
moment,  and  scientist  not  at  all — wanted  her  for  his  own. 

David  rose,  gently  ruffled ;  she  was  interested  in  her  book, 
and  did  not  want  to  be  disturbed.  But  the  book  was  pres- 
ently forgotten,  and  the  vexation  swamped  in  amazement; 
an  amazement  so  obviously  genuine  that  Hall  could  not 
doubt  its  honesty. 

"That  you  should  think,"  said  David,  "of  marrying  a 
woman  with  my  views,  seems  to  me  almost  as  extraordinary 
as  that  you  should  imagine  for  a  moment  that  I  could 
dream  of  marrying  a  man  with  yours." 

"I  am  stupid,  I  suppose,  but  I  don't  understand." 

"Didn't  Percy  tell  you,  when  he  wrote?" 

"Nothing  about  you,  except  that  you  were  here." 

"I'm  sorry,  because  you've  misunderstood  all  along.  I 

should  have  told  you  if  I'd  thought — for  an  instant 

But  I  supposed  you  wished  to  ignore  it  all,  and  to  meet 
on  neutral  ground." 

Then  she  told  him,  and  saw  his  lip  curl  in  the  way  she 
remembered;  yet  he  was  mad  enough  in  that  moment  of 
disappointment  to  plead  that  as  neutrality  had  availed  so 
far,  it  might  prove  a  permanent  meeting-place. 

But  there   was   in   David   no   answering   madness   to 


294  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

strengthen  the  plea,  and  she  dismissed  it  at  once  with  a 
decision  there  was  no  mistaking. 

"I  suppose,"  said  Hall,  standing  before  her,  "that  to 
Mrs.  Home  belongs  the  honour  of  this — conversion." 

"No.  Mrs.  Home  tried  to  influence,  me,  but  I  set  my 
face  against  her  influence.  It  was  two  men  who  converted 
me ;  my  husband  and  yourself." 

"Ah?" 

"Yes,  I  saw  him — I  can't,  and  I  needn't,  go  into  it  now 
— I  saw  him — at  his  work.  He  died  as  the  result  of  yours. 
Oh,  I  don't  mean,"  she  said  in  quick  apology,  "yours  per- 
sonally. I  mean  the  system  you  represent — this  Pasteur- 
ism." 

Then  Hall  forgot  his  love.  He  drew  a  step  nearer. 
"How  dare  you-?"  he  said.  "How  dare  you?" 

"Surely  you  heard — how  he  died — and  why.  And  Sir 
James  Carey — who  was  really  bitten,  but  not  inoculated — 
is  alive  and  well." 

"To  charge  an  individual  case — a  mistake,  probably,  a 
blunder — to  a  system,  is  infamous." 

"  A  scientist  should  discount  no  single  case.  But  I  don't 
mind.  How  is  it  that  in*  India,  since  the  introduction  of 
Pasteurism,  the  mortality  from-  hydrophobia  has  gone  up  ? 
How  is  it  that  in  every  country,  even-  in  this,  the  country 
of  its  birth,  Pasteurism  and  an  increased  death-rate  from 
hydrophobia  always  go  hand-in-hand?"1  Suddenly  David's 
voice  changed,  and  from  her  eyes,  which  met  those  other 
eyes  that  blazed,  the  anger  died  out.  "Don't  let  us  quarrel. 
What's  the  good?  You  see,"  she  said,  with  a  half  smile, 
"how  little  suited  I  am  to  be  your  wife." 

Hall  turned  away;  he  made  no  answer;  in  that  instant 
he  hardly  knew  whether  he  loved  or  hated  her. 

*App.   33. 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  295 

Afterwards  he  told  himself  that  in  a  life  such  as  his,  a 
woman  could  hold  no  large  or  lasting  place;  and  in  truth 
the  pang  that  David  had  inflicted  left  no  abiding  hurt; 
by  and  by  he  reached  the  point  of  assuring  himself  that  he 
had  had  a  fortunate  escape. 

David,  left  alone,  passed  a  wretched  hour,  reproaching 
herself  first  for  her  blindness,  and  then  for  having  lost  her 
temper;  and  Judy's  "I  expected  it"  did  not  tend  to  soothe 
her. 

That  night  she  lay  long  awake,  but  her  thoughts  were 
not  all  of  Hall.  It  was  chiefly  that  sentence  in  Lady 
Lowther's  letter  which  came  between  her  and  sleep.  It  had 
been  easy  to  say  no  to  Hall.  It  would  not  be  easy — yet 
fully  as  imperative — to  say  no  to  Sidney  Gale.  Yet  was 
she  not  disturbing  herself  unnecessarily  ?  She  would  never 
be  called  upon  to  answer  one  way  or  the  other :  for  even  if 
her  mother  were  not  mistaken,  if  he  did  "care  still,"  he 
would  see  as  clearly  as  she  did  that  there  was  an  impassable 
barrier  between  them. 


CHAPTER  XLIII 

GALE,  in  truth,  was  prepared  to  take  the  course  which! 
David  had  mapped  out,  but  for  a  reason  far  other 
than  that  which  she  assigned  to  him ;  far  other,  and  yet,  in 
a  sense,  the  same. 

During  her  absence,  Gale  had  been  driven  out  into  the 
wilderness  and  there  tempted  of  the  devil;  and,  returning 
to  the  beaten  ways  of  men,  he  had  returned,  as  it  seemed  to 
him,  to  a  path  which  led  far  away  from  that  which  David 
had  elected  to  tread. 

Not  into  every  life  comes  this  crisis,  for  the  spirit  must 
have  reached  a  certain  stage  of  growth  ere  it  be  strong 
enough  to  drive  a  man  forth  from  his  familiar  haunts  into 
,the  lonely  place  where  he  finds  only  himself ;  a  dual  mani- 
festation, higher  and  lower;  and  between  the  two  a  decisive 
parting  of  the  ways.  The  spirit  had  cried  for  long  to  Gale ; 
faintly  at  first,  then  louder ;  but  he  would  not  heed  it.  He 
sought  to  shut  his  ears,  to  close  his  eyes ;  yet  the  eyes  would 
not  be  blinded,  nor  the  ears  grow  deaf ;  and  at  last  he  was 
driven  forth  from  the  city  of  conventional  standards  to 
face  the  sum  of  his  lower  longings,  called,  in  the  language 
of  concrete  presentment,  Satan. 

This  Satan  endowed  him  first  with  an  added  power  of 
imaginative  vision :  he  saw,  as  from  a  pinnacle  of  conscious- 
ness, all  that,  would  he  but  make  Satan  his  god,  he  might 
achieve.  Ambition,  as  has  been  said,  was  one  of  the  strong- 
est forces  in  Gale's  character;  and  he  saw  himself  famous. 

296 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS  297 

Already  he  stood  upon  the  lower  slopes  of  the  mountain  of 
success ;  he  had  but  to  pursue  his  present  path  and  he  could 
not  fail  to  mount — to  the  very  summit,  said  the  devil  softly, 
and  Gale  knew  the  words  were  true.  Fame  might  be  his, 
with  its  double  crown  of  successful  achievement  and  the  ad- 
miring esteem  of  other  men ;  and,  at  fame's  feet,  wealth. 

Eiches  for  mere  riches'  sake  he  hardly  desired,  but  there 
are  few  men  to  whom  wealth  in  one  guise  or  another  is  not 
welcome,  and  Gale  was  not  of  these.  Money  was  presented 
to  him,  here  in  the  wilderness,  as  a  means  of  accomplish- 
ment :  he  could  accomplish  a  vast  deal  more  of  value  to  the 
world  if  he  went  on  in  his  present  way,  than  could  possibly 
be  achieved  by  taking  up  the  arms  and  accoutrements  of  a 
crank.  He  could  do  more  good  with  the  wealth  he  would 
win,  than  by  vain  protestations  against  an  established 
order.  Then  said  the  god  within  him:  "What  is  good?" 
and  the  devil,  for. answer,  showed  him  from  his  pinnacle 
failure  instead  of  fame ;  failure  that  could  not  but  be  bitter ; 
more  bitter  to  Gale,  perhaps,  than  to  most  men,  since  he 
held  already  the  title  to  success.  Was  it  imperative  to  court 
it?  necessary  to  proclaim  aloud  theories  which  would  pro- 
voke its  descent? 

He  knew  well  that  there  were  numbers  of  medical  men, 
doubting  as  he  had  doubted;  numbers  convinced  of  the 
immorality,  and  even,  certain  of  them,  of  the  inefficacy  of 
modern  methods  of  research ;  numbers,  again,  as  careless  of 
the  whole  subject  as  is  the  generality  of  the  lay  public :  and 
he  knew  that  all  these  men,  silent,  some  as  to  their  doubts, 
others  as  to  their  convictions,  went  on  with  the  practical 
work  of  healing,  leaving  the  question  of  research  to  those 
chiefly  concerned  with  it.  He  knew  that  their  silence  was 
due,  when  it  was  not  the  result  of  indifference,  to  the  fear 
that  speech  would  mean  failure,  if  not  in  the  lower  ranks 


298  PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

of  the  profession,  certainly  in  its  higher  branches.  He 
knew  that  the  priests  of  that  progress  on  whose  altar  are 
sacrificed  blood  sacrifices,  would  refuse  admittance,  even  to 
the  outer  court  of  their  temple,  to  all  who  were  not  prepared 
to  worship  in  like  fashion  with  themselves.  And  he  knew 
that,  standing  where  he  now  stood,  the  mere  absence  of 
denial  would  be  construed  as  an  affirmation  of  belief. 

But  for  Gale  there  was  no  middle  course ;  the  choice  that 
lay  before  him  was  to  qualify  deliberately  for  priesthood  or 
definitely  to  declare  himself  a  rebel.  Rebellion  meant  fail- 
ure for  a  man  with  a  consulting  practice.  And  what  else? 

Beside  the  splendid  heights  to  which  ambition  pointed, 
he  saw  a  dearer  prospect,  a  sweeter  gain.  He  had  lost  David 
once,  but  he  might  win  her  now ;  in  his  manhood  the  dream 
of  his  youth  might  find  fulfilment.  Unknown  then,  he  was 
spoken  of  now  as  a  man  with  a  future,  a  career;  Lowther 
himself  would  no  longer  despise  him  as  a  son-in-law,  and 
David — there  was  that  in  her  attitude  towards  him  which 
surely  he  could  kindle  into  love. 

But  this  could  be  only  if  he  subscribed  to  the  professional 
creed,  followed  the  professional  practice.  To  abandon  these 
meant  to  abandon  David.  He  knew  nothing  of  what  she 
had  gone  through,  nothing  of  the  change  which  experience 
had  wrought  in  her;  he  only  knew  what  she  herself  had 
told  him  nearly  two  years  ago  in  Harley  Street.  All  that 
he  cared  for  lay  within  the  area  of  orthodoxy ;  and  he  was 
of  the  men  who  care  much.  His  love  was  as  compelling  as 
his  ambition  was  strong;  into  it  was  gathered  all  the  ro- 
mance of  a  nature  in  which  the  Highland  blood  of  ancestors 
still  wrought  a  spell;  and  in  the  glamour  of  that  spell  he 
looked  on  David's  face  and  longed  after  it. 

Then  in  the  wilderness,  beset  with  longing,  beguiled  by 
hope,  there  was  shown  to  him,  in  the  mirage  that  comes 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  299 

only  in  desert  places,  a  vision.  He  saw  the  covering  of 
cant,  convention,  custom,  rent  from  the  usages  of  vivisec- 
tional  science,  and  those  usages  clear  in.  their  nakedness. 
He  saw  might  scorning  right,  scoffing  at  chivalry,  despising 
pity;  discerning  in  weakness  nothing  save  advantage  to 
itself;  finding  in  trust  no  hindrance  to  betrayal.  He  saw 
knowledge  seeking  to  understand  all  mysteries,  puffed  up, 
vaunting  itself,  dazzling  men's  eyes  with  prophecies  of 
wonders  to  come.  He  saw  laid  upon  the  altar  of  man's 
suffering,  a  barrier  in  man's  pathway  of  progress  which  no 
made  the  victims  of  his  tyranny ;  saw  them,  a  veritable  army 
of  martyrs,  born  as  man  is  born,  to  work  their  way  through 
the  evolutionary  process,  and  forming,  in  their  defenceless 
suffering,  a  barrier  in  man's  pathway  of  progress  which  no 
knowledge  can  overthrow.  And  laid  with  them  upon  that 
altar,  he  saw  the  principles  of  justice  and  of  mercy;  not 
girt  about  with  the  garments  of  expediency  or  gain  or  rel- 
ative values,  but  bare  principles,  as  they  lie  at  the  heart  of 
nature;  as  they  shine  in  the  diadem  of  that  love  whose 
transmutation  of  all  baser  tilings  into  itself  is  the  supreme 
achievement  of  a  vaster  science  than  is  known  to  the 
slaughtering  priests;  "the  dim,  far-off  event,  to  which  the 
whole  creation  moves." 

Seeing  all  this,  the  god  in  him  came  forth  boldly;  and 
lo !  the  desert  was  a  garden,  and  after  the  fierce  heat,  it  was 
the  cool  of  the  evening. 


CHAPTEK  XLIV 

A  STRANGE  and  wondrous  thing  befell  soon  after 
David  had  settled  into  the  small  house  in  Con- 
naught  Street,  which  she  had  chosen  in  preference  to  living 
on  in  the  large  one  in  Manchester  Square.  Lady  Lowther 
gave  a  tea-party. 

A  school  friend  of  hers  and  Miss  Barker's  had  returned 
to  England  after  long  residence  in  Canada,  had  looked 
up  her  old  acquaintances,  and  had  been  entertained  by  Miss 
Barker  at  lunch;  and  Bertha  Lowther  felt  that  it  was  in- 
cumbent upon  her  also  to  offer  a  measure  of  hospitality. 
Dinner  was  out  of  the  question,  for  Lowther,  fastidious  in 
regard  to  women,  as  are  many  of  the  men  who  rate  them 
low,  was  disposed  to  be  contemptuous  of  his  wife's  friends, 
and  could  not  be  expected  to  be  interested  in,  and  conse- 
quently courteous  to,  a  stout  lady  whose  greying  hair  had 
a  tendency  to  stray  from  hairpin  limits,  and  who  looked  at 
the  world  through  spectacles.  Luncheon,  for  the  same 
reason,  was  not  to  be  ventured  upon;  so  Bertha  was  con- 
strained to  ask  her  friend  only  to  tea ;  and  in  order  to  make 
the  entertainment  more  of  an  entertainment,  invited,  be- 
sides David  and  Miss  Barker,  some  six  or  eight  of  the  ladies 
with  whom  she  had  a  visiting  acquaintance. 

Since  David  had  come  on  that  troubled  evening  to  Harley 
Street,  and  the  long  reserve  between  mother  and  daughter 
had  been  broken,  Bertha  had  been  conscious  of  a  keener 
interest  in  life,  a  renewal  of  spirit.  Perhaps  the  sense 

300 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  301 

that  she  was  free  of  the  bond  under  which  Lowther  had 
placed  her,  had  something  to  do  with  the  change  in  her;  or 
it  may  be  that,  finding  courage  to  tell  him  of  the  under- 
standing between  herself  and  David,  courage  had  never 
ebbed  so  low  again,  as  in  the  days  when  she  had  been  cut 
off  from  the  sympathy  of  both  husband  and  daughter.  In 
those  days  a  tea-party  would  have  been  an  unmitigated  trial 
to  her  shrinking  shyness;  now  it  was  more  than  half  a 
pleasure.  She  was  mildly  excited  over  the  number  and 
nature  of  the  cakes  to  be  provided ;  she  was  wholly  pleased 
when,  on  the  day  of  the  party,  David  arrived  soon  after 
breakfast  with  an  armful  of  flowers,  and  proceeded  to  place 
them  in  vases  about  the  room. 

David  had  to  promise  to  return  early,  very  early,  in  the 
afternoon,  so  that  no  alarming  guest  might  precede  the 
support  of  her  presence;  and  in  order  to  preserve  her 
mother's  mind  from  perturbation,  she  reached  Harley 
Street  an  hour  before  anybody  was  invited. 

She  met  Lowther  .on  the  doorstep.  Since  Cranley- 
Chance's  death,  and  more  especially  since  the  death  of  Vi, 
his  anger  towards  her  had  lost  much  of  its  bitterness.  See- 
ing that  she  did  not  speak  of  her  opinions,  had  not  in.  any 
way  proclaimed  them,  he  had  mentally  removed  her  from 
the  region  of  treacherous  antagonism  to  that  of  harmless 
lunacy;  and  knowing  the  profound  grief  she  had  suffered 
in  the  loss  of  Vi,  his  real  affection  had  constrained  him  to 
treat  her  with  gentleness.  But  his  pride;  in  her  was  gone, 
and  she  knew  that  she  had  sunk  for  ever  below  the  level  of 
his  intellectual  recognition-. 

He  greeted  her  kindly,  her  -black  dress  and  a  pathos 
which  was  now  often  in  her  eyes  somehow  making  appeal 
to  him;  and  David  answered  him  gaily,  glad  of  the  smile 
on  his  face. 


302  PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

"I've  come  to  the  tea-party,"  she  said.  "Are  you  aware 
that  her  ladyship  is  at  home  this  afternoon?"  Lowther 
liked  his  title,  she  knew,  and  any  allusion  to  it. 

"At  home  ?    Good  Lord !    Who  to ?"  asked  he. 

"An  old  friend  of  her  own,  and  the  wives  of  certain 
friends  of  yours;  and  me." 

"That  Home  woman's  not  coming,  I  hope?  I've  told 
your  mother  I  wouldn't  have  her  in  the  house." 

"The  Home  woman  is  not  the  least  likely  to  come  where 
she  isn't  welcome — even  if  she  had  been  asked,  which  she 
hasn't  been.  So  don't  be  afraid." 

la  spite  of  all  that  had  happened,  David  had  not  quite 
lost  the  habit  of  standing  up  to  her  father,  and  for  the  re- 
tention of  that  habit  Lowther,  in  his  soul,  respected  her; 
it  was,  in  his  opinion,  the  sole  claim  to  respect  which  she 
still  possessed. 

"Well,  I  suppose  women  like  to  be  shut  up  together,  and 
drink  tea  and  chatter.  Bad  for  their  nerves,  but " 

The  wave  of  his  hand  proclaimed  the  sex's  impervious- 
ness  to  reason. 

"So  different  from  men,"  said  David.  She  was  thinking 
of  the  coterie  to  which  her  father  belonged,  who  met  to- 
gether, not,  to  be  sure,  in.  drawing-rooms,  but  in  studies 
and  clubs;  and  Lowther  knew  her  thought,  and  laughed. 
Then,  as  he  got  into  his  brougham,  he  sighed.  If  only  his 
daughter  hadn't  made  such  a  fool  of  herself ! 

Upstairs  Lady  Lowther  was  waiting,  a  lace  fichu  soften- 
ing the  hard  lines  of  her  stiff  bodice.  A  fain  colour  came 
into  her  cheeks  as  David's  eyes  fell  on  the  fichu,  but  she  was 
reassured  when  David  cried  out — 

"Why,  mother,  how  nice  you  look!" 

She  began  to  wish  she  had  left  her  hair  a  little  fuller  in 
the  front.  She  had  loosened  it  ere  she  put  on  her  cap,  and 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  303 

surveyed  the  effect  for  half  a  minute  with  pondering  eyes, 
then  had  brushed  it  back  into  its  usual  flat  tightness.  Now 
— but  it  was  too  late. 

"I'm  glad  you  don't  think  I  look  too  much  got  up,"  she 
said;  and  David  laughed  aloud. 

"Is  she  a  widow,  this  Mrs.  Chandler?"  she  asked  pres- 
ently, "or  is  there  a  Mr.?" 

"Yes/there's  a  Mr.,  but  he  hasn't  come  over  with  her. 
She  thought  she'd  like  to  come  home  and  see  her  family  and 
her  friends,  and  he  couldn't  arrange  to  come  with  her." 

"Were  you  very  intimate  as  girls?" 

"Oh — fairly.  She  was  rather  pretty,  and  very  poetical, 
and  I  used  to  admire  her.  She  had  fancy  names  for  all 
the  girls,  and  I  thought  it  so  clever  of  her  to  invent  them. 
Though  I  don't  know,"  added  Lady  Lowther,  "that  they 
were  always  very  appropriate." 

"What  did  she  call  you,  mother?" 

"She  called  me  Dawn — it  sounds  so  absurd  now — be- 
cause she  said  I  was  so  rosy  (I  had  rosy  cheeks  as  a  girl) 
and  innocent." 

"Some  dawns  are  horrid,"  said  David;  "not  rosy  at  all." 

"Yes,  of  course;  but  Claire  Selby,  as  she  was  then,  never 
thought  of  anything  of  that  kind.  She  used  to  say,  I 
remember,  that  the  true  poet  was  joyful ;  and  her  name  for 
herself  was  Optima.  She  said  it  was  the  feminine  of  op- 
timist, and  I  dare  say  it  was.  I  have  sometimes  wondered 
what  sort  of  a  life  she  has  had." 

David  soon  discovered  that  Mrs.  Chandler's  life,  whatever 
it  had  been,  had  allowed  her  to  remain  poetical,  for  one  of 
the  first  questions  she  asked  her  school  friend's  daughter 
was  whether  she  was  fond  of  nature. 

David  felt  that  her  reply,  "Yes,  very,"  was  one  of  inade- 
quate banality. 


304  PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS 

It  appeared,  however,  to  satisfy  Mrs.  Chandler,  who 
surveyed  her  smilingly.  "I  love  nature,"  she  said,  "sun- 
sets and  birds  and  the  tints  of  autumn,  especially  birds! 
But  alas !  cold  winter  kills  so  many  of  them." 

"Yes,  I  always  put  out  crumbs,"  said  David,  wfth  the 
pleasurable  sensation  of  treading  on  firm  ground. 

But  Mrs.  Chandler  shook  her  head,  and  laid  two  fingers 
in  gentle  reproval  on  David's  hand.  "No,  no,  my  dear. 
Nature  gives  and  withholds.  I  never  run  the  risk  of 
bronchitis  in  order  to  thwart  her  plans." 

"What  nonsense,  Claire!"  exclaimed  Miss  Barker,  who 
drew  near  with  a  sugar  basin  in  one  hand  and  a  milk  jug 
in  the  other.  "You  might  just  as  well  say  that  we  ought 
to  camp  out  because  nature  hasn't  provided  us  with  houses." 

"Dear  Isabel !"  said  Mrs.  Chandler,  "you  always  took 
such  a  prosaic  view.  I  used  to  call  her  East  Wind,"  she 
said  to  David,  "because  she  was  so  cutting." 

Miss  Barker  gave  a  little  grunt;  a  sound  that  David  was 
used  to  call  "Doggie's  growl."  "It  seems  to  me,"  she  said, 
"that  whenever  people  want  to  be  selfish  or  unkind  they 
always  quote  nature.  No  offence  to  you,  Claire,  for  I 
know  you  don't  mean  to  be  unkind;  you  never  did.  But 
as  a  girl  you  were  apt  to  talk  over  your  own  head." 

For  the  first  time  Mrs.  Chandler  looked  ruffled,  and 
David  was  thankful  when  her  mother's  timid  voice  recalled" 
Miss  Barker  to  the  tea-tray. 

Mrs.  Chandler  very  soon  recovered  herself. 

"I  adored  that  woman,"  she  said  presently.  "As  girls 
we  were  almost  inseparable,  though  I  was  often  wounded 
by  her  sweeping  denunciations.  We  were  like  the  ivy  and 
the  oak — she  rugged,  I  clinging.  When  I  lunched  with 
her  the  other  day  we  seemed  to  resume  our  old  relations 
without  an  eifort." 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS  305 

"How  delightful!"  said  David. 

"  She  never  had  my  sensitiveness,"  Mrs.  Chandler  purred 
on,  "but  her  proeaic  common  sense  controlled  my  perhaps 
too  ardent  imagination.  I  required,  I  dare  say,  the  bracing 
influence  of  my  East  Wind  friend." 

A  lady  crossed  the  room  and  took  the  vacant  chair  on 
David's  other  side. 

"I've  been  longing  for  a  word  with  you,"  she  said.  "I 
know  how  progressive  you  are,  and  I  want  you  to  come  and 
support  my  husband  on  the  ninth.  I  don't  know  whether 
you've  heard !  He's  going  to*  hold  a  debate  with  the  no- 
torious Mrs.  Home." 

"A  debate  between  a  man  and  a  woman?  Dear  me! 
How  interesting !"  said  Mrs.  Chandler.  "May  I  inquire  the 
subject  ?" 

"Oh,  vivisection,  of  course,"  answered  Mrs.  Betterton, 
in  a  tone  and  with  a  look  which  said,  "Where  on  earth  do 
you  hail  from  that  you  should  need  to  ask?"  "You  will 
come,  dear  Mrs.  Chance?" 

"I  quite  mean  to  go."  David  hesitated — for  a  bare 
instant.  "Mrs.  Home  is  an  old  friend  of  mine." 

"Dear  me!  I  hope  I  haven't Of  course,  when  I 

said  notorious I  dare  say  she  may  be  quite  genuine ; 

but  so  many  of  those  anti-vivisectionist  women  take  it  up 
simply  to  get  themselves  noticed." 

"Yes,  you  may  take  it  from  me  that  she's  quite  genuine," 
said  David. 

"How  distressing  for  you  that  she  should  have  gone  in 
for  these  views !  I'm  thankful  to  say  I  have  no  friends  who 
do  not  agree  with  me.  I  almost  wonder,  dear  Mrs.  Chance, 
that  you  can  bear  to  go  to  the  debate." 

Again,  for  a  fraction  of  a  minute,  David  hesitated ;  there 
are  few  people  who  are  able  without  some  shrinking  to 


306  PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

brave  the  public  opinion  of  their  own  particular  world. 
David,  in  hers,  had  ranked  as  being  unusually  intelligent 
and  advanced,  as  having  a  logical  mind  and  a  balanced, 
judgment ;  it  was  not  without  a  pang  that  she  stepped  down 
from  the  position  she  had  gained.  But  she  stepped,  when 
she  did  step,  firmly. 

"I  am  going,"  she  said,  "to  support  Mrs.  Home,  because 
I  have  come  to  her  way  of  thinking." 

Mrs.  Betterton  looked  so  completely  bewildered  that 
David,  in  her  nervousness,  nearly  laughed.  Mrs.  Chandler 
took  advantage  of  the  pause  in  the  conversation. 

"Surely,"  she  said,  "your  father's  daughter  cannot  hold 
such  views.  Sir  Bernard's  name  is  known  to  us  in  Canada, 
and  all  that  it  implies." 

"I  can't  answer  for  father's  daughter,"  said  David,  try- 
ing to  speak  lightly.  "That  abstract  creature  no  doubt 
ought  to  think  precisely  as  he  does.  Fm  speaking  now  as 
a  concrete  self,  an  individual  in  its  own  right." 

"May  I  inquire,"  asked  Mrs.  Betterton,  passing  slowly 
from  stupor  to  irony,  "what  has  caused  this — if  I  may  so 
put  it — volte-face'?" 

"You  certainly  have  a  right  to  ask,  since  I  was  once  so 
strong  on  the  other  side.  It  is  simply  that  I  am  persuaded 
that  vivisection  is  cruel,  and  persuaded  also  that  of  all 
immorality  cruelty  is  the  most  immoral." 

"You  forget,"  said  Mrs.  Betterton,  "the  seventh  com- 
mandment." 

"Nature  is  cruel,"  purred  Mrs.  Chandler. 

"I  don't  forget,  either  nature  or  the  seventh  command- 
ment. But  adultery  is  a  sin  of  the  flesh,  and  cruelty  is  a 
sin  of  the  spirit.  As  for  Nature,  she  has  never  wrought  a 
tithe  of  the  cruelty  caused  by  civilisation." 

"It  is  absurd,"  said  Mrs.  Betterton,  bristling,  "to  say 


PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS  307 

that  vivisectors  are  cruel.  Just  think  of  the  splendid  men 
who  employ  vivisection,  of  the  famous  names !" 

The  other  conversations  had  ceased  by  this-  time,  and 
the  attention  of  the  company  was  confined  to  the  disputants. 
Lady  Lowther,  looking  very  nervous,  longed  for  her  knit- 
ting, but  David  had  hidden  it  carefully  away  before  the 
arrival  of  the  guests,  and  the  tremulous  hands  could  only 
crumple  folds  in  the  grey  dress. 

"To  call  such  men  cruel,"  said  the  wife  of  a  famous 
surgeon,  "is  a  libel." 

"  Cruel  to  be  kind,"  murmured  the  voice  of  her  who  loved 
nature. 

The  platitude  roused  something  in  David  which  changed 
her  half-deprecating  attitude  into  one  of  distinct  aggression. 

"Cruel  to  the  defenceless  to  be  kind  to  the  strong,"  she 
said.  "I  call  that  the  coward's  way.  You  might  as  well 
praise  a  man  who  robs  a  weaker  than  himself  in  order  to 
give  a  Christmas  present  to  his  wife." 

She  got  up ;  it  seemed  easier  somehow  to  speak  standing 
than  sitting,  and  stood  with  her  hand  resting  on  the  back 
of  the  chair  from  which  she  had  risen.  "They  say  that  a 
convert,  or  a  pervert,  is  always  better  or  worse — as  you 
choose  to  view  it — than  an  .original  holder  of  any  faith; 
keener,  at  any  rate.  I  think  that  must  be  because  people 
who  change  think  more  about  the  thing  they  change  in  than 
those  who  accept  creeds  without  questioning.  I  thought 
once  as  you  all  think  here." 

Lady  Lowther  swallowed  something  in  her  throat,  half 
opened  her  mouth,  and  shut  it  again  in  silence. 

"Except  me,"  said  Miss  Barker. 

"And  just  because  of  that,  I  suppose,  I  feel  particularly 
strongly  on  the  other  side.  It's  difficult  to  speak  in  a  com- 
pany like  this  without  going  into  what  may  seem  like 


308  PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

personalities;  but,  as  I  have  to  explain  the  change  in  my 
views,  I'd  like  to  say  some  of  the  things  I  think;  and  I 
don't  mean  to  be  personal — I  want  to  speak  generally.  It 
is  argued,  I  know,  that  if  a  man  is  famous  and  clever  and 
distinguished  and — and  domestic,  nice  to  his  wife  and  all 
that,  he  can't  be  cruel.  I  know,  because  I  used  to  argue 
that  way  myself.  But  in  thinking  it  over,  I  see  that  men, 
have  been  all  those  things;  good  to  their  wives  and  chil- 
dren, and  clever  and  amiable  and  charming;  and  yet  have 
done  all  sorts  of  things  that  are  considered  wrong.  Some- 
times they've  been  making  away  with  money  entrusted  to 
them,  for  years  before  they've  been  found  out,  and  some- 
times they've  been  leading  a  double  life,  and  sometimes 
they've  been  the  prey  of  a  secret  vice.  But  if  they  are  found 
out,  nobody  says  that  because  they  were  good  fathers  and 
husbands  or  great  statesmen  or  what  not,  the  things  they 
did  couldn't  have  been  wrong.  When  they  have  done  any- 
thing that  society  recognises  as  a  crime,  society  has  no 
mercy  on  them;  it  doesn't  judge  the  things  that  are  done 
by  the  men  who  do  them,  but  it  judges  the  men  by  the 
things  they  do.  It  is  only,  I  have  noticed,  where  cruelty  is 
concerned  that  the  judgment  is  turned  upside  down;  and 
it  is,  I  am  sure,  because  so  few  people  really  feel  that 
cruelty  is  wrong.  They  think  it  wrong  to  steal  or  to  murder 
or  to  dance  on  Sundays,  but  they  don't  think  it  wrong  to 
hurt  animals  if  they're  going  to  get  anything  by  hurting 
them.  They  only  think  cruelty  is  wrong  if  it  is  wanton,  if 
there  is  nothing  to  be  gained  by  it;  indeed,  unless  it  is 
wanton,  they  won't  even  call  it  cruelty.  And  that  is  why 
vivisection  is  propped  up  by  the  names  of  the  men  who  do 
it;  not  that  it  isn't  cruel,  but  that  people  ddn't  realise  that 
cruelty,  in  its  very  self,  apart  from  whether  you  gain  or 
don't  gain  by  it,  is  a  sin.  I've  thought  about  this  for  a 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  309 

long  time  now,  and  I  feel  it  so  strongly  that  I— I'm  obliged 
to  say  it." 

David's  voice  faltered  at  the  end,  and  her  last  words 
came  lamely.  When  she  sat  down  she  was  trembling  all 
over  and  her  face  burned  painfully. 

Her  seating  herself  was  the  signal  for  all  the  guests,  ex- 
cept Mrs.  Chandler  and  Isabel  Barker,  to  rise. 

"I  am  surprised,"  said  Mrs.  Betterton,  "and — I  must 
say,  shocked.  Such  an  attack  on  the  profession !" 

"I  agree  with  you,"  said  the  surgeon's  wife.  "And  I 
am  so  sorry,"  she  added,  advancing  with  outstretched  hand 
to  Lady  Lowther,  "for  you." 

Lady  Lowther's  face  justified  the  name  with  which  Mrs. 
Chandler's  poetic  fancy  had  in  their  school  days  endowed 
her,  for  she  flushed  a  vivid  pink.  She  tried  to  speak,  then 
choked,  then  tried  again,  and  this  time  succeeded. 

"I — I — I  side  with  my  daughter,"  she  said;  and  looked 
past  her  guesfs  to  David. 

When  most  of  those  guests  had  melted  away,  Mrs. 
Chandler  was  disposed  to  discuss  the  situation  with  regard 
to  its  bearing  on  nature,  but  Miss  Barker  had  a  cab  called, 
and  succeeded  in  luring  her  into  it.  While  she  was  engaged 
in  this  process,  Bertha  Lowther,  left  alone  with  her  daugh- 
ter, stretched  out  her  hands. 

"Oh,  David!"  she  said.    "Oh,  David!" 

"It  can't  be  helped,  mother.  It  had  to  come.  And  a 
crash  is  better  than  crumbling." 

A  faint  smile  illumined  Bertha's  face.  "I  spoke  out — 
at  last." 

"At  any  rate,"  said  Isabel  Barker,  coming  back,  "it 
wasn't  dull." 


CHAPTER  XLV 

OUTSIDE  the  Portman  Rooms  was  an  excited  crowd, 
consisting  of  medical  students,  prepared  and  eager 
to  support,  with  every  weapon  at  their  disposal,  Professor 
Betterton  in  his  debate  with  Mrs.  Home.  They  jeered  at, 
or  cheered,  as  the  fancy  took  them,  every  member  of  the 
audience  as  those  members  passed  into  the  building;  they 
were  ripe  for  mischief  for  mischief's  own  sake ;  they  looked 
forward  to  high  jinks  in  the  way  of  shouts,  smells,  and 
other  disturbing  expedients. 

Inside,  in  the  hall,  when  David  reached  it  twenty  minutes 
before  the  time  fixed  for  the  debate,  most  of  the  seats  were 
full,  and  in  the  atmosphere  was  that  sense  of  expectation 
and  of  contending  influences,  always  present  when  a  ques- 
tion of  keen  interest  and  opposing  issues  is  to  be  discussed. 
She  chose  her  place  carefully,  listening  to  scraps  of  con- 
versation ere  she  seated  herself  in  one  of  the  few  chairs 
which  were  still  vacant  in  the  front  part  of  the  hall;  for 
she  felt  that  she  must  be,  as  far  as  possible,  in  sympathetic 
surroundings.  She  placed  herself  finally  on  the  left  side 
of  the  hall,  between  the  band-stand  and  the  platform. 

And  sitting  there,  she  saw  Sidney  Gale  come  in.  He 
was  known  to  some  of  the  students  as  a  doctor;  as  such 
was  hailed  as  a  member  of  the  vivisectionist  camp ;  and  was 
greeted  with  shouts.  David  turned  at  the  sound,  and  saw 
him  coming  up  the  centre  gangway,  then  turned  away 
again.  She  did  not  want  him  to  see  her  there;  in  this 

810 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  311 

building  they  met  as  foes ;  and  a  surface  attitude  of  friend- 
ship between  her  and  Gale  was  impossible. 

Gale  had  seen  her  almost  the  instant  he  entered  the  hall, 
but  seeing,  looked  away.  He  was  not  a  man  for  half  meas- 
ures; having  come  to  his  decision,  the  next  inevitable  step 
was  to  announce  it  openly,  and  he  meant  to  show  his  colours 
that  night.  After  that,  David  would  look  upon  him  as  an 
enemy,  and  it  was  not  worth  while  in  the  meantime  to  hold 
her  hand  for  an  instant  and  exchange  a  few  formal  phrases. 
He  walked  up  to  the  front — there  was  a  seat  kept  for  him 
there — and  sat  down  near  the  platform.  David,  as  the 
people  turned  and  twisted  their  heads,  caught  now  and 
again  a  glimpse  of  his  tawny  hair. 

The  hall  had  filled  up,  even  to  the  doors,  and  now,  with 
a  rush  of  hurrying  feet,  with  snatches  of  songs  and  laugh- 
ter, the  students  entered  in  a  body.  They  ranged  them- 
selves behind  David,  on  the  band-stand  and  in  a  space 
below  it  which  had  been  allotted  to  them,  and  betook  them- 
selves forthwith  to  the  manufacture  of  evil  smells,  a 
substitute  for  argument  which  they  employed  many  times 
in  the  course  of  the  evening.  David,  unused  to  the  device, 
gave  them  the  satisfaction  of  turning  round;  but  most  of 
the  audience  had  been  to  meetings  of  the  kind  before,  and 
did  not  allow  themselves  to  show  any  sign  of  disturbance. 

Presently  the  students  broke  into  shouts,  derisive  and 
acclaiming;  a  stir  went  through  all  the  hall,  and  loud 
clapping  broke  out,  as  the  chairman,  the  debaters,  and  their 
supporters  appeared  on  the  platform. 

David  had  never  heard  her  friend  speak  in  public,  and 
she  sat  with  quickly  beating  heart  while  the  chairman  made 
his  introductory  remarks  and  announced  the  rules  of  de- 
bate. But  when  Judy,  having  waited  till  the  applause  and 
groans  which  greeted  her  had  died  down,  came  to  the  front 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

of  the  platform  and  began  to  speak,  David's  nervousness 
disappeared;  and  "I  might  have  known,"  she  said  to  her- 
self, "that  she  would  be  able  to  do  anything  she  undertook." 
For  Judy  was  entirely  mistress  of  herself,  her  tongue,  her 
ideas,  and  her  arguments.  She  did  not  once  falter  for  a 
word  or  confuse  a  strain  of  reasoning.  When  interrupted, 
as  she  frequently  was,  by  derisive  shouts,  hisses,  and  cries 
of  "No"  from  the  students,  she  waited  till  she  could  make 
herself  heard,  then  went  on  calmly  with  the  point  she  was 
making  or  the  argument  she  was  engaged  in. 

She  began  by  stating  that  vivisection  was  not  a  modern 
innovation,  peculiar  to  advanced  science;  that  it  had  been 
practised  in  pre-Christian  eras,  and  had  been  practised  not 
only  on  animals  but  on  human  subjects,  and  that  the  only 
novelty  in  connection  with  its  practice  to-day  was  the  out- 
cry against  it;  an  outcry  unheeded,  despised,  or  condemned, 
as  are  all  initial  protests,  by  the  orthodox  majority;  raised 
by  men  and  women  of  advanced  morality,  to  conquer  in  the 
end,  as  truth  always,  in  the  end,  conquers. 

"No!"  shouted  the  students,  "No!"  and  side  by  side 
with  the  shouts  came  a  counterblast  of  applause. 

"The  signs  are  already  there,"  said  Judy.  "I  think  we 
can  safely  prophesy  that  the  next  fifty  years  will  bring  more 
and  more  of  the  decline  of  what  Pawlow  calls  the  acute 
experiment." 

She  went  on  to  question  the  necessity  of  vivisection  to 
the  advancement  of  science,  basing  her  negative  answer  first 
on  what  is  known  in  Darwinian  literature  as  "variation" 
in  animals ;  that  is  to  say,  the  extreme  divergence  in  results 
obtained  by  experiments  on  different  animals ;  and  support- 
ing her  argument  by  quoting  Professor  Starling,  Sir 
Michael  Foster,  Huxley,  and  other  known  authorities; 
secondly,  on  the  fact  that  physiology,  the  science  of  normal 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS  313 

life,  is  studied,  by  means  of  vivisection,  always  under  ab- 
normal conditions.  The  fundamental  fault  of  vivisection 
as  a  scientific  method,  she  declared,  was  the  fact  that  it 
forgets  the  unity  of  the  organism ;  the  correlation  of  func- 
tions, the  mysterious  and  delicate  harmony  of  the  body  as 
a  whole;  and  that  it  was  only  when  physiology  grew  more 
philosophical,  when  it  entered  again  into  contact  with 
what,  for  want  of  a  better  term,  is  called  natural  history, 
that  it  could  be  raised  to  the  rank  of  a  more  exact  science 
than  it  was  at  present. 

The  cries  and  counter-cries  broke  out  again;  the  atmo- 
sphere was  charged  with  the  forces  of  antagonistic  feelings ; 
David's  nerves  were  strained  to  acute  tension  by  the  clash 
and  jangle  of  them.  The  antagonism  deepened,  the  cries 
were  charged  with  jeers  and  laughter,  when  Judy  spoke  of 
the  relation  between  vivisection  and  medicine ;  when  she  de- 
clared that  future  progress  lay  in  the  direction  of  prevent- 
ing disease  by  those  hygienic  and  sanitary  measures  which 
alone  had  rid  Europe  of  the  terrible  scourges  of  the  Middle 
Ages;  that  the  physician  of  the  future  would  become  more 
and  more  a  teacher  of  health,  less  and  less  a  believer  in  the 
efficacy  of  the  drug  and  the  knife;  that  the  more  rational 
methods  of  healing  by  air,  water,  and  electricity  would 
supersede  the  coarser  medication  of  poisonous  draughts  and 
injections ;  and  that  diet,  physical  culture,  and  the  general 
rules  of  health  would  attract  the  attention  of  progressive 
science. 

The  loud  laughter  of  the  students  in  no  wise  disconcerted 
the  speaker;  the  Irish  blood  in  her  rose  always  when  she 
was  confronted  with  a  fray;  and  she  turned  to  her  oppo- 
nents with  vigour. 

"That  may  seem  laughable,"  she  said,  "to  those  who 
have  never  thought  of  the  progress  of  medicine,  to  those 


314  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

who  go  through  life  in  a  narrow  groove  of  accepted  ideas 
and  prejudices  and  never  trouble  to  step  outside  that 
groove.  But  any  one  who  takes  the  trouble  to  acquire  a 
wider  mental  outlook  will  see  these  tendencies,  since  they 
are  marked  everywhere." 

She  went  on  to  point  out  that  the  Royal  Commission  on 
Tuberculosis  sat  on  year  after  year,  wasting  time  and 
money,  sacrificing  animal  life,  producing  no  sure  result 
but  pain.  And  then:  "There  is  primarily  no  scientific  or 
medical  aspect  of  this  question,"  Judy  said.  "The  question 
is  fundamentally  a  moral  one.  Throughout  the  evolution 
of  social  morality  there  is  one  thing,  one  red  thread,  which 
is  very  conspicuous;  and  it  is  that  wherever  mankind  has 
judged  the  rights  and  wrongs  of  a  thing,  there  has  been 
what  I  may  call  the  lower,  immediate  utility  which  has  had 
to  be  put  aside  for  the  greater,  the  higher,  the  further 
utility;  and  that  moral  victories  have  always  ultimately 
been  victories  and  triumphs  on  the  physical,  on  the  material 
plane  also." 

She  was  obliged  to  pause  here  till  the  storm  of  inter- 
ruption by  the  students,  who  opposed  considerations  of 
mercy  or  morals  with  more  vehemence  than  any  others,  had 
been  partly  allayed  by  the  chairman's  intervention,  had, 
partly  of  itself,  died  away. 

"Stealing,"  she  went  on,  "is  a  practice  which  can  be 
defended  from  certain  points  of  view.  There  are  many  poor 
people  in  the  streets  who  might  like  to  rob  some  millionaires 
who  seem  little  to  deserve  their  affluence  and  their  pros- 
perity. But  society  does  not  allow  it.  Society,  though  able 
to  see  the  smaller  utility  of  feeding  the  hungry,  of  giving 
bread  to  the  child  that  has  nothing  to  eat,  of  bringing  joy 
and  happiness  to  the  home  that  is  sunk  in  misery ;  society, 
though  it  may  see  these  things,  forbids  stealing,  because  it 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  315 

sees  the  further,  the  greater,  the  wider  morality,  and  knows" 
that  that  wider  morality  will  ultimately  lead  to  greater 
physical  benefit,  to  greater  physical  harmony  in  the  great 
social  unit.  In  the  same  way  I  maintain  that  vivisectional 
utility  is  the  lesser,  the  smaller,  the  seemingly  necessary 
one  which,  if  discarded,  will  ultimately  bring  about  greater 
moral  and  social  health,  and  thereby  also  greater  physical 
health.  For  if  the  ultimate  aim  is  to  reach  a  state  where 
mankind  is  governed  by  the  inner  and  cultivated  instincts 
of  doing  to  others  only  what  you  would  like  to  have  done 
to  yourselves,  then  vivisection  is  doomed  to  extinction,  and 
the  result  will  be  the  production  of  a  humanity  which  is 
morally  whole  and  intellectually  sane." 


CHAPTER  XLVI 

AS  Judy  sat  down,  applause,  jeers,  shouts,  hisses,  broke 
forth  in  opposing  tumult;  and  through  the  tumult, 
informing,  intensifying  it,  swept  the  conflicting  passions 
which,  springing  from  the  hearts  of  the  audience,  held  and 
swayed  it.  David,  tossed  on  the  tide  of  battling  emotions, 
clapped  with  hands  that  trembled.  Judy  was  her  friend; 
her  love  for  her  in  those  minutes  was  charged  with  pride ; 
while  her  zeal  for  the  cause  she  pleaded  was  rendered 
intenser  and  at  the  same  time  less  pure  by  the  narrower 
spirit  of  the  partisan. 

Turning,  she  saw  the  students,  derisive,  antagonistic,  yet, 
as  was  borne  in  upon  her  even  in  the  confused  consciousness 
of  the  moment,  inspired,  not  by  convictions  but  by  tradi- 
tions; lads  hot  with  loyalty  to  their  leaders;  boys — for 
most  of  them  were  hardly  more — loving  a  row  for  its  own 
sake.  Surely  if  tradition  had  handed  them  a  different  creed, 
they  would  have  held  it  with-  equal  fervour ! 

The  noise  they  delighted  in  broke  forth  anew  when  Pro- 
fessor Betterton  rose ;  in  the  form  now  of  hurrahs,  of  cheers, 
of  the  singing  of  "For  he's  a  jolly  good  fellow."  So  great, 
indeed,  was  their  enthusiasm,  that  it  considerably  interfered 
with  their  leader's  opening  sentences. 

The  professor  could  hardly  be  said  to  reply  to  Judy's 
speech,  since  he  took  up  a  different  ground  from  hers.  For 
him,  in  the  question,  there  was  no  moral  issue,  such  an  issue 
being,  as  he  implied,  dependent  on  certain  conditions,  the 

816 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  317 

existence  of  which  he  refused  to  admit.  He  made  some 
personal  remarks  on  Judy,  reflecting  on  her  capacity  for 
opposing  him.  He  allowed  that  experiments  belonging  to 
an  earlier  period,  and  which  were  no  longer  performed,  had 
been  cruel,  but  asserted  that  the  vivisection  of  the  present 
was  painless.  He  declared  that  anti-vivisection  was  a  lost 
cause. 

He  argued  that  because  doctors  as  a  body  are  not  cruel, 
physiologists  cannot  be  cruel  either;  but  later  on  he  ap- 
peared to  adopt  as  his  definition  of  cruelty  that  given  in  an 
Act  of  Parliament  which  lays  down  that  "The  mere  in- 
fliction of  pain,  even  of  extreme  pain,  is  not  sufficient  to 
constitute  cruelty." 

Hd  based  his  defence  of  vivisection  entirely  on  expedi- 
ency, and  supported  the  utilitarian  argument  by  references 
to  the  diminution  of  rinderpest  and  by  an  appeal  to  the 
fears  and  the  selfish  instincts  of  his  hearers.  "What  will 
happen  when  your  child  is  dying  of  diphtheria,  with  the 
membrane  slowly  encroaching?  Will  you  not  then  take 
the  benefits  that  have  been  derived  from  experimentation  ? 
Will  you  let  your  children  die  for  the  sake  of  a  rabbit?" 

The  students  cheered  vociferously,  and"  David,  listening, 
recalled  the  days  when  words  such  as  these  would  have 
caused  her  to  join  in  the  cheers.  But  now  she  longed  to 
cry  out:  "And  what  if  I  save  my  child  from  starvation  by 
robbing  or  prostitution  or  any  of  the  ways  that  society 
recognises  as  wrong?  Is  there  morality,  or  is  there  not?  or 
is  self-interest  the  only  test  of  right?"  As  for  the  rhetorical 
rabbit,  the  picturesque  limitation  had  no  power  to  affect  her 
imagination-;  she  knew  well  that  the  true  name  of  that  one 
rabbit  was  legion. 

The  professor  adduced  statistics  from  the  Metropolitan 
Asylums  Board  Hospitals  to  prove  that  the  case  mortality 


318  PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

from  diphtheria  had  decreased  since  the  introduction  ol 
anti-toxin.  He  did  not  mention  that  the  actual  mortality 
had  increased,  that  the  tendency  of  the  disease  was  to 
spread,  to  claim  ever  more  victims ;  nor  did  he  state  that  the 
report  of  the  Metropolitan  Asylums  Board  showed  that  of 
the  cases  on  which  the  statistics  of  case  mortality  were 
based,  nine  hundred  and  eight  had  been  in  one  year  falsely 
diagnosed  as  diphtheria.1 

He  brought  forward  a  further  argument  with  which 
David  was  well  acquainted,  and  which,  even  when  she 
shared  the  views  of  the  man  to  whom  she  now  listened,  had 
always  struck  her  as  fallacious;  the  argument  that,  since 
other  cruel  practices  were  rife  in  the  world,  vivisection, 
even  though  cruel,  was  justified. 

The  professor  concluded  by  stating  that  Judy  was  im- 
perfectly equipped  for  the  discussion  of  the  subject  under 
debate,  and  the  assertion  that  vivisection  was  as  necessary  to 
physiological  discovery  as  is  any  one  part  of  the  machinery 
of  a  watch  to  the  working  of  the  whole. 

All  through,  the  students  had  supported  and  interrupted 
him  by  cheers  and  comments ;  now  they  gave  vent  to  a  pro- 
longed burst  of  cheering  and  the  repetition  of  their  favour- 
ite song;  and  again  the  battle  of  warring  forces  which  was 
waged  all  that  evening  in  the  emotional  consciousness  of 
the  audience  swelled  to  fiercest  contest.  When  the  physical 
sound  of  it  was  stilled,  the  chairman  announced  that  the 
meeting  was  open  to  general  discussion,  and  that  six  per- 
sons desirous  of  speaking  had  sent  up  their  names. 

David  knew  who  one  of  them  was ;  she  had  seen  Gale  rise 
from  his  seat  and  hand  a  slip  of  paper  to  the  chairman.  It 
was  natural,  of  course,  that  he  should  speak  in  support  of 
his  friend.  He  and  Professor  Betterton  were  acquainted, 

»App,  84. 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS  819 

she  knew;  and  even  if  they  were  no  more  than  acquaint- 
ances, it  was  to  be  expected  that  Gale  would  uphold  his 
profession.  But  oh !  how  she  wished  he  would  not  speak ! 
Not  that  it  made  any  difference;  it  would  be  no  worse  to 
hear  him  state  his  views  than  to  know,  as  she  knew  already, 
that  he  held  them ;  but  nevertheless  she  shrank  from  hear- 
ing him  utter  them  publicly.  As  each  speaker  left  the 
platform  she  dreaded  to  hear  in  the  next  name  called  the 
name-  she  knew ;  but  it  was  not  till  the  other  five  debaters 
had  spoken  that  the  chairman  said,  "  Dr.  Gale." 

She  saw  Gale  rise  and  mount  the  platform;  she  saw 
Professor  Betterton  smile  at  him;  she  saw  him  turn  his 
eyes  towards  the  place  where  she  sat,  and  knew  that  they 
rested  on  her  and  that  he  recognised  her.  He  supposed,  no 
doubt,  that  she  was  in  sympathy  with  him.  If  he  could 
only  have  known  how  she  shrank  from  what  he  was  about 
to  say! 

Gale,  on  his  part,  was  aided  by  a  sense  of  desperation. 
He  had  come,  knowing  that  there  would  be  present  many 
men  with  whom  he  was  acquainted;  knowing  that,  were 
that  by  chance  not  the  case,  the  fact  that  he  spoke  on  Bet- 
terton's  platform  against  Betterton's  cause  was  quite  suffi- 
cient to  advertise  his  change  of  attitude  throughout  the 
profession.  He  was  prepared  to  "face  the  music,"  and  he 
shrank  hardly  at  all  from  doing  it.  The  shrinking  had 
been  done  out  in  the  wilderness. 

But  David !  She  would  have  known,  to  be  sure,  in  any 
case,  very  soon ;  but  he  would  rather  not  have  had  her  eyes 
upon  him  as  he  spoke,  and  feel  that  those  eyes  would  lose 
their  friendliness  as  she  listened.  And  her  anxious  face,  as 
he  saw  it  there,  distinct  amidst  the  sea,  of  faces,  touched 
him,  tempted  him,  all  the  more  because  of  the  trouble  in  it ; 
calling  out  that  longing  to  protect,  to  help  her,  which  had 


320  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

been  a  dominant  desire  in  him  all  through  the  years  of 
crushed  passion  and  banished  hope.  And  now  he  was  about 
to  cut  himself  off  from  any  chance  of  losing  that  longing 
in  the  attainment  of  its  end;  to  cut  himself  off  by — un- 
less  

For  a  moment  he  was  caught  up,  swept  from  the  plat- 
form, set  on  a  great  height,  saw  the  kingdom  of  love  and 
the  glory  of  it ;  just  while  the  students,  recognising,  as  they 
thought,  an  advocate,  struck  up,  "For  he's  a  jolly  good 
fellow."  Then,  as  they  paused,  he  began  to  speak. 

"Don't  sing,  gentlemen,  till  I  have  said  my  say.  Mr. 
Chairman,  ladies,  and  gentlemen !  I've  come  up  here  to 
say  that  from  the  time  I  was  a  medical  student,  the  ques- 
tion of  vivisection  has  been  an  insistent  one  with  me.  I 
didn't  want  to  think  about  it,  but  I  couldn't  help  myself; 
I  had  to  think,  I  had  to  go  into  it.  I  think  I  may  say  that 
it's  a  question  I've  looked  at  from  every  point  of  view — 
the  utilitarian,  the  humanitarian,  the  moral,  the  scien- 
tific. In  my  practice  I've  applied  the  principles  laid  down 
by  vivisectional  research;  or  tried  to  apply  them.  For" — 
Gale  gave  the  little  gesture  that  David  knew,  and  his  hair 
rebelled  in  the  old  way — "for,  over  and  over  again,  my 
clinical  experience  has  opposed  my  vivisectional  teaching, 
and  times  and  again — in  cancer  cases  especially — I've 
found  that  teaching  not  only  ineffective,  but  misleading." 

A  great  shout  went  up ;  the  air  was  rent  with  the  volume 
of  it.  Gale  waited  a  minute  while  the  sound  surged  round 
him;  then  his  voice  struggled  with  the  hooting  and  the 
groans,  the  cat-calls  and  the  hisses  which  greeted  him  from 
the  students'  stronghold;  with  the  cheers  and  clapping  that 
sprang  up  from  all  parts  of  the  hall ;  struggled,  and  in  the 
end — for  it  was  as  strong  in  its  way  as  his  hair — conquered. 
"I  haven't  much  more  to  say ;  you  may  as  well  hear  it.  For 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS  321 

that  reason  and  others — others  that  have  been  ably  stated 
by  Mrs.  Home  to-night — I  need  not  repeat  them — I  take 
my  stand  with  the  party  she  represents ;  and,  standing  in  its 
midst,  I  believe  I  stand  with  that  section  of  thinkers  and 
actors  whose  saner  and  wider  outlook  will,  in  the  long  run, 
sweep  the  present  system  into  the  limbo  of  mistakes." 

Of  the  confusion  that  followed  Gale's  words  David  was 
but  half  aware ;  she  did  not  hear  the  debaters'  replies ;  she 
did  not  know  that  a  resolution  on  the  question  debated  was 
taken,  and  that  the  anti-vivisectionists  carried  the  day.  She 
sat  quite  still,  till  the  crowd  about  her  had  partially  ebbed 
away ;  her  strong  desire  was  to  see  Gale,  and  to  tell  him  of 
her  relief  and  sympathy. 

But  Gale,  seeing  her  rigid  attitude,  her  pale,  moved  face, 
had  drawn  his  own  conclusions  from  her  bearing,  and  had 
gone  away  without  coming  near  her. 

By  and  by  David  rose  and  joined  Judy,  who  was  waiting 
for  her  as  had  been  arranged,  and  the  two  women  left  the 
hall  together.  But  it  was  Judy  who  talked,  all  the  way  in 
the  cab,  of  the  evening's  last  episode.  David  spoke  little, 
and  not  at  all  of  Gale.1 

*App.  35. 


CHAPTER  XLVII 

DAVID  did  not  sleep  much  that  night.  The  currents 
of  feeling  which  had  swept  through  the  meeting 
seemed  still  about  her :  still  she  was  moved  by  the  passion 
of  desire  to  win  victory  for  her  cause;  still  she  faced  the 
storm  of  angry  derision  which  had  greeted  Gale's  announce- 
ment. She  felt  that  storm,  indeed,  more  fully  in  the  quiet 
of  her  home  than  in  the  minutes  of  its  raging;  for  now 
she  could  realise  the  impression  then  made,  and  obscured 
at  the  moment  by  a  haze  of  profound  emotion. 

Gale  had  met  the  storm  calmly ;  he  had  not  left  the  plat- 
form till  it  had  subsided,  but  had  stood,  smoothing  down 
his  air,  and  looking  straight  at  the  howling  students  with 
those  queer,  keen  eyes  of  his.  And  this  central  figure  of 
the  picture  had,  for  David,  filled  the  canvas,  and  she  had 
been  conscious  of  but  one  sensation — gladness.  The  shock 
of  surprise  caused  by  the  first  words  of  Gale's  recantation 
had  been  followed  by  a  rush  of  excitement;  and  then  had 
come  the  gladness,  and  had  held  her  ever  since;  held  her 
now,  as  she  moved  about  her  room,  doing  the  things  she 
did  every  night 

Lying  down  in  bed,  with  eyes  closed  for  sleep,  the  eve- 
ning repeated  itself  in  simultaneous  presentments  of  all 
that  had  taken  place;  vivid,  graphic,  entirely  destructive 
of  the  possibility  of  rest.  David  fought  with  the  visions 
for  a  time,  then  left  her  bed  and  seated  herself  in  an  arm- 


PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS  323 

chair  by  the  open  window.  From  that  window  she  could 
look  into  Connaught  Square,  could  see  a  clear  space  of 
starry  sky,  and,  in  the  faint  starlight,  motionless  trees. 

It  was  a  warm  night,  and  the  still  air  was  soft  and 
soothing;  every  now  and  again  a  cab  turned  the  corner  of 
the  Square  and  rattled  past;  and  the  hum  of  traffic  came 
up  from  the  Edgware  Road.  Gradually  David's  spirit  was 
released  from  the  Portman  Booms;  gradually  her  limbs 
relaxed,  till  she  lay  back  with  her  head  resting  on  the 
cushion  of  the  chair;  gradually  she  fell  asleep. 

When  she  awoke  it  was  light,  with  a  pale  morning  light, 
gilded  with  faint  sunshine.  She  awoke  with  a  little  shiver, 
for  it  was  chilly  now ;  a  little  sense  of  bewilderment  at  find- 
ing herself  in  an  unwonted  position,  an  unwonted  place; 
and  the  usual  little  pause  of  shrinking  memory,  before  she 
took  up  again  the  burden  of  knowledge  which  had  been 
hers  since  the  iron  of  realisation  had  entered  into  her  soul. 
All  her  life  David  kept  her  buoyancy  of  temperament ;  but, 
like  all  those  who  have  once  heard  the  cry  of  pain,  from 
whatever  part  of  the  vast  kingdom  of  being  that  cry  may 
come,  she  could  never  again  forget  it. 

There  axe  some  who,  hearing  the  cry  with  the  outward 
ears  only,  weep  for  a  night  and  find  joy  again  in  the  morn- 
ing. There  are  some  who,  hearing  thus,  shrink  from  the 
sound  and  stop  their  ears,  declaring  they  cannot  bear  it ; 
and  these  are  the  sentimentalists,  who  think  more  of  their 
own  pain  than  the  relief  of  the  suffering.  And  there  are 
some  who,  hearing  in  this  outer  way,  care  not  at  all.  But 
those  who  have  heard  truly,  with  the  inner  ear,  never  forget 
the  cry;  its  sound  is  in  their  souls;  its  appeal  is  continual. 
These  know  that  it  can  never  cease  till  all  men  listen,  all 
men  have  heard,  and  all  men  unite  to  still  it;  and  these 


324  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

work  unflaggingly,  finding  greater  rest  in  work  than  in 
inaction. 

The  cry  was  with  David  now  as  constantly  as  the  memory 
of  her  lost  child ;  not  always  dominating  her  consciousness, 
but  swaying  her  heart ;  and  it  was  there  this  morning,  com- 
pelling, insistent,  hut  with,  as  it  seemed  to  her,  a  new  trem- 
bling note  in  it,  the  faint  promise  of  a  far-off  deliverance. 
Up  till  now  she  had  lived  in  a  land  of  hostility,  a  land 
where  all  her  fellow-countrymen,  save  only  her  mother  and 
Judy,  were  set  in  a  solid  phalanx  of  opinion  which  'she, 
singly,  must  defy;  and  defying  it,  she  had  felt  as  though 
she  beat  the  air.  But  last  night  she  had  met,  as  it  were,  an 
allied  army,  pledged  to  the  cause  which  was  her  own ;  had 
felt  the  support  of  companionship;  realised  the  vitality  in 
a  movement  which  she  had  been  accustomed  to  hear  branded 
as  futile.  A  lost  cause?  Nay,  a  dawning  power,  destined 
to  become  dominant;  despised  and  rejected  of  the  mighty 
amongst  men,  yet  compassed  about  with  a  cloud  of  witness 
in  the  prophecies  of  seers,  the  songs  of  poets,  the  service  of 
the  pitiful. 

And  now,  amongst  those  servants  stood  Sidney  Gale, 
whose  friendship  she  need  not  refuse,  whose  love — for 
David  was  frank  with  herself — she  was  free  to  accept. 

It  was  the  thought  of  that  love,  of  which  she  could  not 
be  confident,  that  caused  her  to  hesitate  about  writing  to 
Gale.  So  long  as  there  had  been  a  barrier  between  them, 
she  had  felt  sure  that  he  loved  her :  now  that  the  barrier 
was  broken  down,  she  began  to  doubt.  He  had  left  the  hall 
last  night  without  speaking  to  her.  Surely — if  he  cared  at 

all — and  knowing  now  that  they  thought  alike But 

did  he  know  it?  How  indeed,  when  she  came  to  think  of 
it,  should  he  know  it  ?  It  was  possible,  more  than  possible, 
more,  even,  than  probable,  that  he  knew  no  more  of  her 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS  325 

change  of  attitude  than  she  had  known  of  his.    And  if  he 

didn't ? 

In  the  end  she  wrote : — 

"DEAR  DR.  GALE, 

"I  thought  when  you  went  on  to  the  platform  last 
night  that  you  were  going  to  speak  on  the  other  side,  and 
I,  like  you,  have  left  that  side,  and  come  over  to  the 
minority.  To  find  a  friend  where  one  looked  for  a  foe  is 
a  rare  pleasure,  and  I  feel  myself  obliged  to  congratulate 
both  you  and  myself. 

"Yours  sincerely, 

"DAVID  CRANLEY-CHANCE." 

i 

When  she  had  written  and  sent  the  letter,  she  was  seized 
with  panic,  and  went  out.  Supposing  he  were  to  come? 

Gale  did  come,  but  not,  as  it  happened,  till  she  had 
returned. 

He  had  arrived  home  on  the  preceding  night  in  that 
state  of  exaltation  which  often  carries  a  man  triumphantly, 
nay  joyfully,  through  an  act  of  abnegation;  for  the  wine 
of  sacrifice  has  an  intoxication  of  its  own.  But  the  morn- 
ing, according  to  the  undeviating  law  of  sequence,  brought 
with  it  reaction,  and  Gale  left  home  to  go  through  his  daily 
round  in  a  depression  unrelieved  by  any  consciousness  of 
heroism.  He  had  thrown  everything  away,  and  yet  had  felt 
at  the  time  that  much  remained ;  a  magnificent  much ;  but 
this  morning  it  seemed  that  there  was  nothing  left.  When, 
therefore,  coming  in  to  a  delayed  lunch,  he  found  David's 
note  on  the  hall  table,  he  expected  to  find  in  it  the  disdain- 
ful reproach  which  he  fancied  he  had  read  upon  her  face. 

What  he  actually  found,  reward  instead  of  punishment, 
sympathy  and  not  disdain,  seemed,  in  the  first  great  revul- 


326  PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

sion  of  feeling,  impossible  to  believe.  It  could  not  be,  was 
his  first  thought ;  the  desire  of  his  heart  distorted  his  sight 
and  gave  a  false  sense  to  words  which  would  presently 
reveal  themselves  as  messages  of  cold  reproach.  He  had 
said  good-bye  to  love ;  and  here  was  love,  radiant,  bidding 
him  good-morrow  !  It  could  not  be. 

Yet  there  stood  joy's  credentials,  plainly  written,  in  the 
handwriting  that  he  knew ;  the  words  did  not  change  as  he 
read  them  again  and  again.  This  marvel  was  a  verity  after 
all.  He  had  thrown  away  his  mess  of  pottage ;  but  he  had 
found — was  it  not  his  birthright? — the  right  to  win  the 
love  of  the  woman  who  had  been  for  him  always  the  one 
woman,  apart  from  and  above  all  others  in  the  world. 

He  would  answer  the  letter  at  once.  No,  he  would  go  to 
Connaught  Street.  He  had  been  as  anxious  hitherto  to 
avoid  David  as  David  to  avoid  him ;  but  there  was  no  need 
to  avoid  har  any  more. 

He  did  not  reach  Connaught  Street  till  late,  for  he  was 
a  bus}r  man  now,  and  consultation  after  consultation  filled 
his  afternoon.  It  was  after  half-past  six  when  David  heard 
his  knock,  and  knew  that  it  was  his. 

"I  am  very  late,"  said  Gale.    "I  meant  to  come  before." 
"It  is  good  of  you  to  come,  busy  as  you  are." 
"I  wanted  to  answer  your  note  by  word  of  mouth." 
"I  am  very  glad  to  see  you."     David,  who  had  been, 
filled,  when  she  heard  Gale's  knock,  with  delightful  expec- 
tation, found  herself  sinking  into  the  feeblest  commonplace. 
But  Gale,  who  had  come  with  the  full  intention  of  being 
commonplace,  was  lifted  out  of  himself  by  the  sight  of  her 
face,  the  fact  of  her  presence. 

"I  should  have  come  long  ago,"  he  said,  "but  that  I 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  327 

imagined  we  belonged  to  opposite  camps,  and  I  supposed 
you  would  not  have  anything  to  do  with  me." 

Then,  suddenly,  he  said  the  words  that  he  had  thought 
he  might  perhaps  say  in  a  month's  time.  "I've  cared  for 
you  always,  David.  Is  there  any  hope  for  me?" 

Now  that  the  words  were  said,  it  seemed  fitting,  in  the 
natural  order  of  things,  to  David,  as  well  as  to  Gale,  that 
they  should  be  uttered  then  and  there,  before  the  discussion 
of  aught  else. 

David  did  not  speak,  because  her  lips  were  tremulous; 
but  her  gaze  sought  Gale's,  and  he,  meeting  it,  read  his 
answer  in  her  eyes. 

"But  you  must  realise,"  Gale  said  later,  "that  you  are 
marrying  a  sort  of  pariah.  And  goodness  only  knows  what 
will  become  of  my  practice." 

"And  you  must  realise  that  you  are  marrying  a  sort  of 
pauper.  All  that  Cranley  left  me  goes  to  a  cousin  if  I 
marry  again.  I  have  only  my  aunt's  legacy  and  the  settle- 
ment money.  It  comes  to  under  two  hundred  and  fifty  a 
year  altogether." 

"Thank  the  Lord!"  said  Gale,  "that  they  can't  say  I'm 
marrying  you  for  your  money.  All  the  same,  two  hundred 
and  fifty  a  year  seems  to  me  uncomfortably  much." 

"They'll  probably  say  that  you're  marrying  me  because 
nobody  but  an  anti-vivisectionist  would  have  you,"  David 
assured  him. 

He  stayed  with  her  all  the  evening.  She  gave  him  a  little 
impromptu  dinner,  in  the  recess  in  the  dining-room  where 
the  stained  window  was.  David  always  dined  in  that  recess, 
at  a  tiny  table,  except  when  she  had  company ;  and  Gale — 
delightful  thought! — was  no  longer  company.  He  thought 
the  dinner  perfect.  Every  dish  was  excellent.  (The  pud- 


328  PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

ding  was  a  trifle  burnt,  but  Gale  took  two  helpings.)  What 
a  clever  housekeeper  David  must  be! 

David's  housewifely  feeling  was  strong  enough  to  draw 
the  line  of  approval  at  burnt  pudding;  nevertheless  she 
omitted  the  next  morning  to  remonstrate  with  the  cook. 

They  were  supremely  happy,  these  two  people,  who  stood 
on  the  edge  of  storms  and  thought  they  had  reached  a  last- 
ing haven ;  who  had  touched  hands,  as  it  were,  as  boy  and 
girl,  and  now,  as  man  and  woman,  might  let  those  hands 
meet  in  an  abiding  clasp.  To  Gale,  that  evening,  came  back 
much  of  the  boyish  gladness  of  bis  youth;  but  David  rested 
in  her  woman's  happiness.  It  was  the  sweeter  possession. 


THE  marriage  of  David  and  Gale  and  their  joint  heresy 
made  a  nine  days'  wonder  in  that  corner  of  the  world 
to  which  they  both  belonged;  and  a  variety  of  scandalous 
tales  kept  that  corner  actively  employed  in  speech  and  hear- 
ing for  many  weeks. 

It  was  said  that  Gale  had  always  been  a  secret  foe  to  his 
own  household,  that  he  had  Jesuitical  tendencies  and  had 
only  spoken  out  by  reason  of  pressure  applied  from  high 
quarters;  that  he  had  made  love  to  and  perverted  David 
during  her  husband's  lifetime;  and  that  Cranley-Chance 
had  been  spared  much  sorrow  and  scandal  by  his  untimely 
end.  For  all  this  Gale  cared  little,  and  David  not  much; 
the  only  serious  trouble  that  David  suffered  was  on  her 
father's  account. 

Lowther's  prejudices  were  outraged,  his  pride  wounded 
to  the  quick,  by  his  daughter's  attitude  and  conduct.  They 
constituted  what  he  felt  to  be  a  personal  disgrace,  and  his 
affection  for  David  was  turned  into  a  bitterness  which  for- 
bade all  intercourse  with  her.  Lady  Lowther,  the  desire  of 
whose  heart  found  fulfilment  in  David's  marriage,  was 
robbed  of  half  fulfilment's  sweetness  by  Lowther's  for- 
bidding his  daughter  the  house.  She  could  go  to  see  David, 
but  David  might  not  come  to  see  her;  and  she  went  to  the 
wedding  in  surreptitious  splendour,  making  a  compromise 
with  her  husband's  known  wishes  by  dispensing  with  the 
carriage  and  conveying  herself  and  a  new  lilac  silk  dress  to 

829 


330  PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

the  church  in  a  cab.  She  had  the  unique  experience  of 
being  the  most  gorgeously  attired  person  present;  for 
David,  deeply  and  sharply  grieved  by  the  breach  with  her 
father,  had  arranged  that  the  wedding  should  be,  in  every 
respect,  as  little  conspicuous  as  possible ;  and  Gale  did  not 
care  in  what  fashion  he  was  married,  provided,  as  he  said  in 
answer  to  David's  suggestions,  the  ceremony  was  legal. 

Percy  Burdon  was  in  the  church,  faithful  but  disap- 
proving. He  had  come  up  to  London  some  weeks  before, 
when  he  first  heard  of  the  engagement,  and  had  talked,  as 
he  told  Polly  afterwards,  very  seriously  to  his  cousin.  Gale 
still  attracted  him,  and  seemed  indeed  very  little  different 
from  what  he  had  always  been ;  but  it  was  the  attraction  of 
forbidden  fruit;  Percy  felt  there  was  an  heretical  flavour 
in  the  apple  of  Gale's  companionship.  His  counsels  to 
David  were  those  of  filial  duty  combined  with  prudence. 

"Uncle  Bernard  feels  it  terribly,  you  know,  and  I  don't 
wonder.  He's  getting  an  old  man  now,  too.  Besides,  ten 
to  one,  he  doesn't  leave  you  a  halfpenny." 

"I'm  sorry.  I  wish  I  could  make  him  younger.  As  for 
the  halfpenny,  I  can't  help  it.  Let's  hope  you'll  benefit  by 
my  destitution." 

"  For  shame,  David !  As  if  I  thought I'm  speaking 

for  your  good;  I'm  so  afraid  you  haven't  thought  it  over." 

"I  have,  I  assure  you.  Will  it  relieve  your  mind  if  I 
tell  you  that  I  lie  awake  at  night,  thinking  it  over  ?" 

"You  do?"    Percy  looked  doubtful. 

"I  do  indeed.    And  the  more  I  think,  the  happier  I  am." 

"Oh,  David!  But  it's  so  rash,  you  know.  Supposing  he 
loses  his  practice?  A  consulting  practice  like  his,  you 
know.  Are  you  quite  sure  you're  not  making  a  mistake?" 

"I  would  so  much  rather  risk  making  a  mistake,"  said 


PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS  331 

David,  "than  be  quite  sure  I  was  wrong."  And  that  was 
all  Percy  had  to  take  back  with  him  to  Langborough. 

He  returned  for  the  wedding,  alone;  the  presence  of 
Polly  might  have  appeared  to  countenance  the  disloyal 
eccentricity  of  the  two  people  whom  he  could  not  dislodge 
from  his  heart,  and  he  felt  that  he  gave  the  right  touch 
by  appearing  in  solitary  benevolence. 

The  only  other  persons  in  the  church  were  Gale's  half 
brother,  who  acted  as  best  man,  Judy,  and  a  woman  with 
a  disfigured  face,  the  erstwhile  Sarah  Jennings,  resplendent 
in  a  large  hat  with  red  feathers. 

Lady  Lowther,  sitting  beside  Judy  in  a  front  pew, 
thought  of  that  other  wedding  day  of  David's  when  she 
had  caught  sight  of  Gale's  miserable  face  in  the  gallery, 
and,  for  all  her  husband's  wrath,  rejoiced.  To  Gale  too 
the  memory  came,  placed  itself  side  by  side  with  the  present 
and  made  that  present  ineffable.  And  to  David  it  presented 
itself,  but  was  by  her  refused  admittance,  since  to  her  it 
brought  a  train  of  other  memories,  too  sad  or  too  terrible 
to  face. 

Three  years  after  her  second  marriage,  David  was  sent 
for  by  her  father.  He  had  never  spoken  to  her  since  the 
dreadful  day  on  which  he  had  forbidden  her  his  house,  con- 
firmed in  his  anger  against  her,  his  dislike  of  Gale,  by  the 
fact  that  they  both  took  an  active  part  in  the  movement 
which  he  hated.  Had  they  chosen  a  neutral  way,  his  dis- 
pleasure might  have  dwindled  to  contempt;  but  Gale  was 
not  the  man,  nor  David  the  woman,  to  be  content  with 
neutrality.  "And  besides,"  said  Gale,  "we  may  as  well  be 
hung  for  a  sheep  as  a  lamb." 

David's  sheep  consisted  in  taking  over  a  considerable 
portion  of  the  work  which  had  been  done  by  Judy;  for 
Judy,  soon  after  David's  marriage,  found  herself  obliged 


332  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

to  loosen  her  hold  upon  some  of  the  reins  which  she  had 
held  so  firmly  until  now;  and  it  seemed  to  David  that  the 
chance  of  semi-reconciliation  with  her  father  was  not  a 
sufficient  ground  for  refusing  to  do  definite  work. 

But  now  Lowther  was  dying,  and  desired  to  see  his 
daughter  before  he  died. 

David  came  tremblingly.  Her  love  for  him  had  outlived 
his  bitterness;  her  girlish  admiration  still  persisted;  his 
refusal  to  see  her  or  her  children  had  been  a  perpetual  cloud 
on  the  happiness  she  found  with  Gale.  She  brought  the 
children  with  her  now ;  a  boy  and  a  girl ;  the  girl  a  baby  but 
a  few  months  old.  But  Lowther,  having  glanced  at  the 
children,  motioned  them  away. 

"I  can't  do  with  babies,"  he  said;  "and  that  boy" — he 
glanced  at  the  little  fellow  clinging  to  David's  skirt — "is 
too  like  his  father.  You  don't  suppose  I'm  going  to  for- 
give Gale?" 

"I  don't  suppose  anything.  I'm  only  glad  to  see  you 
again." 

"Dying.    I  haven't  left  you  anything,  David." 

David's  face  flushed  at  the  proof  of  his  persistent  enmity. 

"Do  you  think  I'm  going  to  have  Gale  battening  on  my 
money?"  Lowther's  lip  went  out  in  the  old  way.  "Pooh !" 

"We  don't  want  your  money,  father." 

"Don't  you?  I  should  have  thought  you  did.  Gale's 
practice  is  going  down  hill  as  fast  as — I  could  wish,  I 
hear." 

"Father,  why  did  you  send  for  me  if  this  is  all  you  have 
to  say?" 

"Because  I  had  a  fancy  to  see  you  again.  I  shall  have 
another  attack  soon.  /  know.  It's  no  good  these  other 
fellows  coming  and  rubbing  their  hands  over  me;  I  know 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS  333 

tte  tricks  of  the  trade.  And  then  I  shan't  be  able  to  see 
anything  or  anybody." 

The  wounded  feeling  and  the  anger  which  had  sprung 
from  it  melted  out  of  David's  heart.  She  was  his  only 
child,  he  had  been  proud  of  her,  and  she  had  disappointed 
him.  She  knelt  down  beside  him. 

"I'm  so  sorry,  so  very  sorry." 

The  falter  in  her  voice  touched  him ;  or  his  brain,  clear  at 
times,  became  clouded.  He  looked  at  her  with  softer  eyes. 

"I  always  liked  your  face,  Girlie,"  he  said.  It  was  a 
name  he  had  not  used  since  her  childhood;  perhaps  he  for- 
got how  deeply  she  had  offended  him.  "It  was  never  a 
tiresome  face;  and  you  were  never  a  tiresome  woman."  The 
cloud  deepened  on  his  brain,  lifted  from  his  heart.  "I  was 
very  proud  of  you — before  you  married.  He's  a  good  deal 
older  of  course,  and  you  were  very  young.  As  if  I  didn't 
know  you  were  young !  I  knew  your  age  as  well  as  she  did. 
But  your  mother  was  always  a  fool.  .  .  .  But  a  good  posi- 
tion— he's  made  his  name.  With  a  position  like  that — and 
your  brains — and  your  face,  you  might  be  a  leader — a  leader 
of  society." 

It  was  evident  that  he  had  forgotten  Cranley-Chance's 
death,  forgotten  what  had  come  just  before  it,  forgotten 
what  had  happened  since.  By  the  time  he  remembered,  by 
the  time  his  mind  came  back  to  him,  and,  with  his  mind, 
his  bitterness,  David  had  gone ;  and  he  did  not  send  for  her 
again. 

It  was  not  long  before  his  prediction  was  fulfilled;  he 
had  diagnosed  his  own  case  with  accuracy;  and  a  month 
after  David's  visit  the  neswpapers  gave  a  column  to  the 
" Death  of  Sir  Bernard  Lowther." 

Lowther  was  extolled  as  a  great  man,  one  who  had 
benefited  humanity  and  advanced  science.  "Hia  range  of 


334  PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

subjects,"  said  the  Morning  Messenger,  "was  limited  to 
those  branches  of  science  and  medicine  of  which  he  had 
made  himself  master,  but  his  outlook  was  wide.  He  put 
progress  before  prejudice,  and  knowledge  before  sentiment. 
The  work  that  such  men  do  is  of  incalculable  benefit ;  their 
lives  are  lives  of  self-sacrifice." 

Later  on,  under  "Wills  and  Bequests"  appeared  an  ac- 
count of  the  way  in  which  Lowther  had  bequeathed  his 
money.  His  words  to  David  had  been  no  empty  threat ;  he 
had  left  her  not  a  farthing ;  nor  her  children,  because  they 
were  also  Gale's.  Lady  Lowther  was  provided  for  by  a  life 
interest  in  fifteen  thousand  pounds.  Percy  received  ten 
thousand;  Edgar  Hall  another  ten  "to  aid  him  in  his 
beneficent  work" ;  and  the  remainder  of  the  sixty  thousand 
which  Lowther  had  made  and  saved  went  to  the  Medical 
School  of  the  hospital  on  the  staff  of  which  he  had  been  for 
so  many  years. 

David  had  spoken  truly  when  she  told  her  father  she  did 
not  want  his  money ;  she  had  no  thought  of  currying  favour 
with  him  when,  in  answer  to  his  message,  she  had  come  to 
Harley  Street;  nevertheless,  when  the  contents  of  the  will 
were  made  known,  she  could  not  entirely  suppress  a  sense 
of  disappointment.  The  absence  of  her  name  was  a  public 
repudiation  of  her ;  she  felt  that,  in  spite  of  that  last  inter- 
view, Lowther  had  not  really  forgiven  her;  and  then,  in 
the  Gale  household,  money  was  far  from  plentiful. 

Lowther's  jibe  had  the  sting  of  truth  in  it;  his  son-in- 
law's  practice  was  undoubtedly  declining.  His  diagnosis 
was  as  acute  and  accurate  as  ever,  his  treatment  as  intelli- 
gent, his  skill  as  great;  but  he  was  no  longer  invited  to 
consultations.  It  became  necessary  for  David  to  do  what  in 
all  her  life  she  had  never  done,  to  be  careful  in  the  spending 
of  shillings,  to  deny  herself  the  little  indulgences,  the  small 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  335 

extravagances  which  she  had  eajoyed  without  thinking 
about  them.  Gale  knocked  off  the  whole  of  his  wine  mer- 
chant's bill  (a  bill  chiefly  incurred  on  behalf  of  his  friends) 
and  half  his  tailor's;  and  at  the  time  of  David's  visit  to  her 
father  it  was  a  serious  question  between  the  husband  and 
wife  whether  they  should  give  up  the  brougham. 

"Not  that  I  mind  walking — now  I've  got  the  time,"  said 
Gale;  "but  it's  a  confession  of  failure  and  may  lead  to 
bankruptcy — in  patients." 

"We'll  keep  it  on,  and  save  in  other  ways." 

"The  puzzle  is — to  find  the  ways." 

"Oh,  we  could  do  with  a  servant  less;  and  my  dress- 
maker is  absurdly  extravagant." 

"You  haven't  had  a  new  dress  at  all  this  summer,  sweet- 
heart. Do  you  think  I  don't  notice?" 

"What  I  wear?" 

"Yes,  what  you  wear  and  what  you  do — everything." 

"I  consider,"  said  David,  surveying  herself  in  the  glass, 
"that  I  look  very  nice.  Besides,  losing  all  your  patients 
won't  conduce  to  reckless  expenditure  in  the  matter  of 
clothes." 

"There's  the  children's  education  to  think  of." 

"Oh,  don't  let's  think  of  educating  them  yet,  Sidney, 
poor  little  mites." 

"No,  but  it's  got  to  come.  I  used  not  to  care  a  hang 
about  what  was  going  to  happen  and  all  that.  But  now, 
by  Jove ! " 

"We'll  keep  the  carriage  for  a  bit,  at  any  rate.  Let's 
make  a  good  fight  of  it,  Sidney.  And  don't,  for  heaven's 
sake,  make  me  feel  that  you  would  have  got  on  better  with- 
out me  and  the  children." 

"All  right.  We'll  keep  it  on,  make  a  hollow  show  and 
blow  the  expense !  And  here's  to  the  health  of  David  Gale 


336  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

and  all  the  little  Gales !"  Sidney  drank  up  his  tea,  kissed 
David,  and  made  for  the  door.  "There's  a  poor  benighted 
patient,  who  don't  know  I  am  an  A.-V.,  coming  at  five- 
thirty,"  he  said.  "Lef  s  hope  he  won't  find  it  out  till  he's 
cured." 

"Is  he  curable?" 

"Eather.  Lord!  I  could  cure  him  and  dozens  like  him 
if  they'd  only  listen — or  hearing,  understand.  But  people 
won't  stop  taking  what's  bad  for  them.  What  they  want  is 
to  stuff  themselves  with  poisons  and  then  be  given  an  anti- 
dote. Patch  them  up  and  they  love — and  pay — you.  Try 
to  cure — and  they  go  and  pay  somebody  else." 

When  Gale  had  gone  David  went  and  stood  before  the 
mirror,  a  long  narrow  one  that  hung  between  the  two  win- 
dows and  showed  her  the  greater  part  of  herself.  Her  gaze 
was  critical,  but  it  relaxed  in  satisfaction.  "So  long  as  I 
don't  look  dirty— or  dowdy,  what  does  it  matter  ?"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  XLIX 

THOUGH  Lowther  had  bequeathed  his  daughter  noth- 
ing, indirectly  she  benefited  by  the  money  he  left,  for 
Bertha  contrived  to  spend  a  large  proportion  of  her  five 
hundred  a  year  on  the  Gale  household. 

"I  could  not  stay  on  in  Harley  Street,  even  if  I  wanted 
to,"'  she  said,  "and  I  am  tired  of  those  great  roomst  I 
should  like  the  smallest  house  I  can  find." 

So  she  established  herself  in  one  of  the  tiny  houses  in 
Portsea  Place,  with  a  former  housemaid,  now  widowed,  who 
was  willing,  on  condition  of  being  called  her  housekeeper, 
to  undertake  the  functions  of  a  "general";  and  every  day 
Lady  Lowther,  usually  with  the  aid  of  a  friendly  policeman, 
crossed  the  Edgware  Road  and  lunched  in  Montagu  Street. 
For  this  "partial  board,"  as  she  termed  it,  she  insisted  upon 
paying  a  guinea  a  week;  insisted,  too,  upon  buying  all  her 
grandchildren's  clothes  and  on  making  frequent  presents  to 
their  mother.  Bertha  always  found  an  excuse  for  her  gifts ; 
it  was  Christmas  or  New  Year's  Day,  Easter,  Midsummer 
or  Michaelmas;  or  somebody's  birthday;  and  David,  after 
the  first  demur  at  the  new  order  of  things,  accepted  the 
gifts  as  freely  as  they  were  given,  realising  that  in  prac- 
tising petty  economies  and  helping  her  and  Gale,  her 
mother  was  happier  than  she  had  been  during  the  greater 
part  of  her  life. 

The  help  eased  them  in  the  struggle  to  maintain  that  out- 

887 


338  PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS 

ward  token  of  prosperity,  the  carriage;  and  though  Gale's 
professional  visits  grew  fewer,  he  still  paid  them  in  state. 

As  for  Bertha,  having  reached  the  stage  of  realising  that 
she  was  free,  she  immensely  enjoyed  her  freedom.  It 
seeaned  strange  at  first  to  be  able  to  do  as  she  liked,  and 
then  less  strange  than  delightful.  She  dropped  away  from 
most  of  her  old  acquaintances;  an  easy  thing  to  do  when 
the  dropping  process  was  a  mutual  one ;  but  she  made  new 
friends,  and  went  to  meetings  with  David,  and  heard  David 
speak,  her  heart  almost  bursting  with  pride  the  while ;  and 
stood,  indeed,  upon  a  summit  of  content. 

David,  taking  a  part  in  propaganda,  working  actively  for 
the  cause  she  had  taken  up,  met  with  divers  disillusion- 
ments.  She  had  thrown  herself  into  that  cause  with  the 
fervent  enthusiasm  of  a  whole-hearted  nature,  and  with  all 
the  confidence  of  those  who  fight  for  truth  with  truth's 
pure  weapons.  She  found  enthusiasm  indeed ;  but  a  fervour 
not  always  discriminating;  weapons  marred  often  with  the 
mire  of  misstatement.  She  learned  what  so  many  have  had 
to  learn  before  her,  that  movements  inspired  by  truth  are 
constantly  greater  than  their  makers,  while  the  causes 
which  depend  for  their  vitality  on  the  men  who  lead  or 
follow  them  are  often  weak  or  worthless.  But  David,  when 
she  started  her  campaign,  did  not  know  this;  and  it  was 
pain  and  grief  to  her  to  meet,  amidst  the  nobility  of  pur- 
pose, the  courage^  keen  intellect  and  self-sacrifice  of  many 
of  her  fellow-workers,  with  the  exaggerations,  the  calum- 
nies, and  the  unbalanced  bigotry  which  are  worse  foes  to 
any  principle  than  its  direct  enemies.  Often,  when  facing 
a  platform,  she  was  filled  with  shame  by  the  unfair  and 
inaccurate  statements  which  were  hurled  from  its  boards, 
by  the  perversion  of  facts  or  the  exaggeration  of  wrongs*; 
and  she  longed  to  substitute  the  clean  cut  of  truth  for  the 


PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS  339 

^ 

jagged-  wounds  more  damaging  to  supporters  than  oppo- 
nents. 

Having  lived  all  her  life  amongst  those  who  were  now 
opponents,  she  knew  well  that  in  their  ranks  were  many 
men  humane  in  thought  and  noble  in  intention ;  many  who, 
approving  of  the  system  of  vivisection,  found  themselves 
unable  to  practise  it;  many  who,  actually  practising  it, 
shrank  from  conscious-  cruelty.  She  knew,  too,  that  there 
were  experiments  involving  no  positive  pain,  either  at  the 
time  of  experiment  or  after,  to  the  animal  operated  upon ; 
that  there  was  much  classed  under  the  head  of  scientific 
vivisection  which  was  infinitely  less  cruel  than  many  of  the 
barba-rities  of  the  farmyard,  the  slaughter-house,  or  the  fur 
and  feather  trades. 

Knowing  all  this,  shamed  and  indignant  at  the  denial  of 
it,  she  was  doubly  careful,  when  she  herself  stood  upon  the 
platform,  to  be  just  to  the  enemies  of  her  cause,  and  so  just 
to  the  cause  itself.  That  cause  needed,  she  knew,  no  aid 
from  exaggeration  or  falsehood;  the  inherent  justice  of  it 
was  sufficient  to  bear  it  through  the  ridicule,  contempt, 
active  antagonism,  and  paralysing  indifference  which  have 
met  all  movements  springing  from  a  conception  of  morality 
nobler  than  the  standard  of  their  time;  was  sufficient  to 
vitalise  and  support  it  till  the  majority  of  the  advancing 
community  could  recognise  and  accept  its  truth.  There 
was  no  need  to  state  that  all  experiments  were  painful,  since 
by  and  by  men  would  agree  that  a  system  founded  on  the 
rights  of  might  must  be  a  system  which  could  recognise  no 
dividing  line  between  use  and  abuse;  since  later  still  it 
would  be  conceded  that  the  selfish  use  of  weaker  beings, 
human  or  sub-human,  is  in  itself  an  abuse;  till  finally  it 
would  be  seen  that  man,  raciallv,  gains  more  by  cultivating 
courage  than  acquiring  ease,  by  developing  love  than 


340  PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS 

amassing  knowledge.  Then,  as  Cameron  maintained,  when 
the  selfish  ways  were  closed,  new  avenues  would  be  opened : 
to  knowledge,  to  health,  to  the  understanding  by  man  of 
man's  true  origin,  nature,  and  fate.  Men,  turning  from 
the  blind  alleys  of  disease  commissions,  would  perceive  that 
the  one  cure  for  disease  is  health,  not  the  substitution  for  it 
of  attenuated  maladies ;  and  that  health  is  won,  not  in  spite 
of  that  nature  of  which  man  forms  a  part,  but  by  a  more 
subtle  study  of  the  laws  of  being  than  is  possible  by  vivi- 
sectional  methods. 

David,  speaking,  insisted  always  upon  the  big  issues,  on 
ultimate  as  well  as  on  immediate  results ;  and  her  instances 
of  cruelty  or  failure  on  the  part  of  her  opponents  were 
instances  which  rested  on  first-hand  testimony.  "What  is 
the  use  of  exaggeration,"  she  would  ask,  "when  the  truth  is 
more  than  sufficiently  terrible?" 

Gale,  meanwhile,  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  the 
carriage  must  go.  His  practice,  robbed  of  the  consulting 
element,  was  small,  and  did  not  increase.  People  had  be- 
come imbued  with  the  idea  that  he  was  not  "up  to  date"; 
and  though  most  of  his  old  patients  remained  to  him,  their 
ranks  were  not  swelled  by  new  ones.  Having  decided  that 
it  would  be  absurd  to  keep  on  the  carriage,  he  had  to  tell 
David  of  his  decision.  He  did  it  on  a  day  of  biting  east 
wind,  when  David,  coming  in,  had  sought  warmth  in  his 
study.  There  was  not  often  a  fire  in  the  drawing-room 
now. 

When  he  had  said  his  say,  she  held  out  a  foot  to  the 
flames.  "  Certainly,  if  your  'carriage  practice'  has  all  gone, 
there's  no  use  in  having  a  carriage.  We'll  just  descend, 
gracefully,  to  a  lower  sphere." 

Gale  caught  her  in  his  arms;  his  heart  was  miserable 


PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS  341 

with  the  thought  that  he  had  dragged  her  down  from  wealth 
to  share  his  sordid  fate. 

She  knew  the  thought;  felt  it,  perhaps,  in  the  clasp  of 
the  arms  about  her ;  and  answered  it  in  French  words  that 
were  favourites  with  her;  leaning  back  from  him,  so  that 
she  could  look  into  his  eyes. 

"Quand  meme,"  she  said. 

The  next  night  the  two  went  to  the  play.  "Because," 
said  David,  "we  shall  be  so  much  richer  now  without  that 
.horrid  carriage  gnawing  at  our  vitals;  and  because  it's  so 
delightful  to  spend  money  on  vain  pleasures  when  you  feel 
you  ought  to  buy  a  new  coal-scuttle  for  the  dining-room." 

The  giving  up  of  the  carriage  eased  considerably  the 
strain  of  adapting  ways  to  means,  and  as  long  as  Lady 
Lowther  was  able  to  help  them,  the  Gales  stayed  on  in 
Montagu  Street. 

But,  two  years  after  the  brougham  had  been  abandoned, 
Bertha  died,  passing  out  of  life  as  unostentatiously  as  she 
had  passed  through  it.  The  last  part  of  that  life  was 
fraught  with  pain ;  but  she  who  had  been  always  weak  was 
now  strong.  She  bore  the  bodily  torture  with  a  courage 
which  had  failed  her  during  the  long  years  when  she  had 
felt  herself  to  be  a  traitor;  for  now,  as  she  expressed  it, 
she  could  look  herself  in  the  face.  And  all  the  time  she 
was  haunted  by  the  thought  of  the  hundreds  of  animals 
subjected  year  after  year,  vainly  and  remorselessly,  to  suf- 
fering such  as  hers;  inoculated  with  the  disease  which 
claimed  her;  unaided  by  the  narcotics  which  soothed  its 
agonies.  The  little  frail  woman,  dying  of  cancer,  knowing 
of  science  only  certain  of  its  methods,  unskilled  in  ethical 
argument,  unlearned  in  theology,  was  cognisant  of  the  great 
truth  that  there  is  no  valid  sacrifice  save  that,  self-offered, 
of  the  sacrificed;  none  other  from  which  ultimately  evil 


342  PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

will  not  spring  in  greater  measure  than  good.  She  reasoned 
out  no  theory,  discerned  no  law;  felt  only  that  it  must  be 
so ;  and  suffered  with  added  poignancy  in  the  knowledge  of 
deliberately  inflicted  suffering. 

Her  last  articulate  words  were  of  those  which  long  ago 
had  struck  David's  attention,  and  which  Bertha  applied  to 
herself  and  to  all  beings  who,  like  or  unlike  herself,  were 
the  victims  either  of  moral  cowardice  or  physical  tyranny : 

"Pray  for  the  weak!" 


CHAPTER  L 

SIDNEY  GALE  sat  in  his  study  reading  the  book  which 
made  the  name  of  Edgar  Hall  famous  throughout  the 
world.  A  little  bit  of  a  study  it  was,  in  a  house  none  too 
big ;  but  Gale,  as  he  read,  was  so  deeply  interested  as  to  be 
blind  to  his  surroundings.  Generally  he  was  all  too  con- 
scious of  them,  the  hall-mark,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  of 
failure. 

It  had  cost  him  more  than  it  had  cost  David  to  leave 
Montagu  Street.  She,  to  be  sure,  had  her  sad  hours,  dis- 
mantling the  home  of  her  greatest  happiness ;  packing  some 
of  her  treasures,  parting  with  others;  recognising  the  fact 
that  poverty  had  come  to  her  and  Gale,  not  as  a  passing 
guest,  but  as  a  perpetual  companion,  and  demanded  con- 
cessions to  its  claims.  But  there  had  been  no  bitterness  in 
her  renunciation.  Years  ago,  when  she  had  married  Gale, 
she  had  counted  the  cost,  knowing  well  that  though,  in 
proclaiming  her  own  views,  she  ran  the  gauntlet  of  criticism 
and  lost  caste  in  her  own  particular  world,  the  risks  she 
took  in  casting  in  her  lot  with  his  were  of  graver  kind. 
Gale  himself  had  put  those  risks  before  her,  and  she  had 
answered:  "Am  I  not  called  David,  and  shall  I  fear  to 
fight  Goliath  ?"  Moreover,  she  had  the  consolation  that  a 
woman  always  finds  when  her  heart  is  satisfied.  She  had 
been  ambitious  once,  but  it  was  sweet  to  sink  ambition  in 
the  right  to  share  the  lot  of  the  man  she  loved;  she  had 
given  homage  to  strength,  admired  success;  but  Gale, 

343 


844  PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

staunch  to  his  colours,  had  shown  no  weakness,  and  though 
he  had  sunk  in  his  profession,  in  purpose  he  had  not  failed. 

But  Gale,  with  his  hand  firm  to  the  plough,  permitting 
himself  no  backward  glance,  passed,  in  the  transference  of 
his  household  from  Montagu  Street  to  the  neighbourhood 
of  the  Harrow  Eoad,  through  a  valley  of  despondency,  in 
which  were  bitter  spaces.  Though  he  had  said  good-bye  to 
fame,  he  had  not  been  able  to  oust  ambition  from  his  tem- 
perament ;  and  the  consciousness  of  his  capacity  to  make  a 
name  for  himself,  formerly  so  uplifting,  was  galling  in  cir- 
cumstances which  limited  the  area  of  competition.  And 
then  there  was  the  old  thought  that  he  had  dragged  David 
down.  Though  she  would  not  let  him  utter  it,  it  was  active 
in  his  mind;  and  side  by  side  with  it  went  the  thought  of 
his  children  (there  were  three  now),  their  education,  their 
after  lives. 

David — because  she  was  less  responsible,  Gale  said — was 
bolder.  Lady  Lowther's  death  had  made  a  change  impera- 
tive, and  it  was  better,  David  declared,  to  face  it  in  all  its 
bearings,  to  grasp  the  nettle  firmly  and  so  stultify  its  sting. 

"If  the  boys  are  clever,  they  must  get  scholarships;  if 
not,  they  must  live  on  the  level  of  their  intelligence.  We 
will  do  all  we  can  for  them;  and,  after  all,  it  is  the  men 
who  stand  on  their  own  legs  and  not  on  their  fathers* 
shoulders  who  often  make  the  best  of  life." 

Her  robust  reasoning  made  Gale  laugh,  and  revived  the 
courage  which  in  his  younger  days  had  risen  superior  to 
risks ;  nevertheless  it  had  gone  hard  with  him  to  move  from 
the  pleasant  house  whose  upper  windows  faced  a  garden 
space,  to  the  semi-gentility  of  Falmouth  Street.  Here  his 
skill,  and  the  personal  magnetism  which  is  an  essential 
attribute  of  the  born  doctor,  won  him  by  and  by  a  fresh 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  845 

repute;  but  those  days  were  not  yet;  and  when  Hall's  book 
appeared  Gale  had  plenty  of  time  to  read  it. 

During  the  last  few  years,  while  Gale  had  been  descend- 
ing the  ladder  which  stretches  from  fame  to  failure,  Hall 
had  mounted  it  rung  by  rung.  In  his  younger  days  he 
had  studied  in  various  places,  under  various  teachers,  many 
branches  of  science ;  patient  labour  had  made  him  a  master 
in  some.  Now  he  was  a  professor  in  the  Institute  which  he 
had  entered  as  a  student,  and  his  printed  utterances  bore 
the  stamp  of  authority. 

His  book — The  New  Gospel,  it  was  called — was  widely 
read,  outside  as  well  as  within  scientific  circles;  the  Press 
hailed  it  as  a  work  of  genius;  scientists,  as  a  complete 
philosophy.  "These  piquant  and  learned  'Studies  on 
Human  Nature/  "  said  The  Seasons,  "are  the  recreations 
of  a  naturalist,  the  porerga  of  a  thinker  who,  having  sought 
and  found  in  more  than  one  department  of  human  knowl- 
edge .  .  .  sits  down  for  awhile  to  rest  by  the  wayside  of 
the  via  sacra,  in  order  to  reflect  on  the  vanity  of  received 
opinions." 

"Those  who  read  this  remarkable  work,"  said  the 
Stethoscope,  "can  convince  themselves  that  the  story  and 
the  message  of  hope  which  it  conveys  are  not  the  vain  im- 
aginations of  megalomania,  but  the  logical  inferences  to  be 
drawn  from  observed  facts."1 

Gale,  reading  the  "message  of  hope,"  marvelled,  first  at 
the  wide  and  deep  knowledge  displayed  by  the  writer,  sec- 
ondly at  the  conclusions  he  drew  from  it.  He  knew  that 
his  student  friend  had  been  steadily  rising  in  the  estimation 
of  the  scientific  world;  he  had  not  realised  how  thorough 
had  been  the  study  which  justified  that  rise.  He  under- 
stood and  appreciated  it  now;  while  on  the  other  hand  he 

'App.  36. 


346  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

was  unprepared  for  the  arguments  based  by  Hall  on  his 
accumulated  facts.  It  seemed  wonderful  that,  mastering 
so  much,  he  should  infer  so  little;  Gale  found  himself  dis- 
appointed that  his  former  friend's  conceptions  had  not 
grown  with  his  knowledge. 

The  theory  which  Edgar  Hall  advanced  was  based  on 
the  disharmonies  existing  between  man  and  his  environ- 
ment, and  in  these  disharmonies  he  found  the  source  of 
the  troubles  by  which  man  is  perplexed.  He  began  by 
stating  that  a  general  uneasiness  disturbs  the  world  to-day, 
man  finding  himself  at  a  loss  in  determining  the  course  of 
his  life  and  in  explaining  his  true  relation  to  family,  nation, 
race,  and  humanity.  Sicence,  he  said,  had  been  reproached 
with  inability  to  solve  moral  and  philosophical  questions, 
with  merely  destroying  the  foundations  of  religion,  and 
failing  to  replace  them  with  anything  more  exact  or  en- 
during. Nevertheless  it  was  to  science,  and  science  alone, 
that  man  must  look  for  hope,  happiness,  and  the  solution  of 
all  problems. 

The  first  part  of  the  book  discussed  the  origin  of  man ; 
together  with  that  which  is  commonly  called  human  nature ; 
and  man's  material  body,  its  organs  and  their  functions. 
It  was  preluded  by  a  wonderful  chapter  on  what  Hall 
termed  beings  inferior  to  man,  but  dealing  chiefly  with  in- 
sects and  their  habits.  Here  the  magnitude  of  his  knowl- 
edge was  displayed,  and  the  patient  thoroughness  of  his 
investigations;  Gale,  reading  it,  felt  his  pulses  quicken 
with  admiration  and  interest. 

Of  facts,  acquired  by  diligent  and  painstaking  inquiry, 
Hall  was  a  master;  it  was  when  he  proceeded  to  draw  de- 
ductions from  those  facts,  when  he  departed  from  narration 
to  inference,  that  Gale's  attitude  changed  from  satisfied 
ecquiescence  to  critical  disappointment. 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  347 

When  Hall  .affirmed,  as  Cranley-Chance  had  affirmed, 
that  Nature,  in  producing  man,  had  made  a  sudden  leap  in 
evolution,  Gale's  mind  refused  to  accept  the  assumption; 
nor  did  the  arguments  from  analogy  cited  by  the  author 
appear  to  him  logically  sufficient.  Suddenly  obtained  va- 
rieties in  the  evening  primrose,  and  the  case  of  Inandi,  the 
calculator,  did  not,  for  him,  warrant  the  conclusion  that 
"man  is  a  case  of  the  arrested  development  of  some  simian 
of  ancient  days,"  who,  having  become  varied  in  specific 
characters,  produced  offspring  endowed  with  new  char- 
acters ;  and  that  from  this  being,  a  monster  from  the  zoo- 
logical point  of  view,  sprang  a  new  race,  the  human.  Inandi 
did  not  produce  a  race  of  calculators;  nor  did  it  appear  to 
Gale  that  any  number  of  varieties  obtained  from  a  single 
plant,  transmitting,  indeed,  their  specific  characters  to  their 
descendants,  but  exhibiting  characters,  initiating  species, 
peculiar  only  to  the  original  kingdom  of  the  plant — that 
is  to  say,  the  vegetable — formed  a  just  basis  for  Hall's  argu- 
ment that  it  was  possible  by  development  of  specific  char- 
acters to  leap  from  one  kingdom  to  another. 

Having  determined  the  origin  of  man,  Hall  went  on  to 
survey  those  organs  of  man's  body  which  he  considered 
superfluous,  inefficient,  or  functionally  at  fault.  It  was  to 
what  he  termed  the  disharmonies  of  the  body  that  he  as- 
signed a  large  part  of  man's  unhappiness ;  not  his  physical 
sufferings  only,  but  also  his  mental  perplexities,  his  fore- 
bodings, his  discontent.  For  indeed,  as  Gale  found,  reading 
on,  not  a  part  only,  but  the  whole  of  man's  unhappiness, 
was,  in  this  new  gospel,  charged  to  the  account  of  the  dis- 
harmonious body ;  since  the  fear  of  death,  which,  according 
to  Hall,  was  the  arch  destroyer  of  the  enjoyment  of  life, 
had  its  root  in  the  physical  disharmony.  This  fear,  he 
affirmed,  had  caused  the  creation  and  the  failure  of  all 


348  PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS 

religions  and  philosophies:  men,  fleeing  from  the  fear  of 
death,  sought  to  build  up  a  belief  by  which  they  might  look 
forward  to  continuous  life. 

He  parsed  those  philosophies  and  religions  under  review, 
and  in  the  review  gave  evidence  of  careful  and  extensive 
study  in  a  field  to  which  Gale  would  not  have  expected  him 
to  penetrate;  giving  proof  at  the  same  time,  that  he  had 
failed  constantly  to  grasp  the  true  meaning,  the  real  sig- 
nificance of  many,  if  not  most,  of  the  theories  which  he 
criticised.  He  condemned  them  all;  as  failures,  as  inade- 
quate to  combat  the  fear  and  misery  by  which  man  is  beset. 
Then,  said  he,  came  the  youngest  daughter  of  knowledge, 
science,  and  marched  with  the  weapon  of  scepticism  upon 
the  fortresses  of  religious  dogma,  till  between  science  and 
religion  open  war  was  declared. 

In  Edgar  Hall's  philosophy  there  could  be  no  truce  be- 
tween the  two,  far  less  a  lasting  agreement.  Disease,  which, 
he  averred,  was  the  basis  of  philosophies  interpreted  by 
him  as  pessimistic;  physical  disharmonies;  and  the  fear  of 
death;  these  were  the  factors  in  man's  discontent.  Any 
system  which  admitted  others  was  unreasonable.  Poets, 
prophets,  saints,  were  alike  dreamers;  their  utterances  and 
experiences  the  outcome  of  brains  unbalanced  by  the 
spectacle  of  man's  lack  of  harmony  with  his  environment; 
all  evidence  to  the  contrary  was  untrustworthy. 

That  was  Hall's  position;  a  position  impregnable  to 
argument,  since  it  precluded  all  hypotheses  save  the  one 
on  which  his  own  philosophy  was  founded.  Viewed  from 
that  position,  the  problem  of  hew  to  absolve  man  from 
unhappiness  found  its  solution  in  the  mere  statement  of 
the  causes  of  that  unhappiness.  For,  since  disease  and  the 
fear  of  death  produced  suffering,  the  destruction  of  both 
must  secure  happiness. 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  349 

And  then,  having  arrived  at  the  theoretic  solution  of  the 
problem,  Hall  set  himself  to  find  the  means  by  which  that 
solution  might  be  put  in  practice.  It  was  but  logical,  since 
in  the  welfare  of  the  body  lay  man's  salvation,  that  he 
should  ignore  all  sentiment  save  such  as  is  directly  con- 
nected with  that  welfare,  and  to  that  welfare  subordinate 
all  that  would  appear  to  strengthen  it.  Why  take  into 
account  the  pain  of  the  animal  world,  justice  in  relation  to 
that  world,  when  the  sole  consideration  was  how  to  obtain 
immunity  from  disease,  how  to  escape  the  fear  of  death? 
Why  contemplate  pity,  advocate  courage,  when  in  ruthless- 
ness  lay  deliverance ;  and  man  was  to  shape  his  course,  not 
towards  the  vanquishing  of  fear,  but  hi  subservience  to  it? 

This  was  the  new  gospel :  that  man  was  to  abandon  all 
dreams  of  immortality,  divinity,  unselfish  love,  and  cleave 
to  science  alone;  and  that  science,  isolating  herself  from 
religion  as  well  as  creeds,  from  philosophy,  from  all  the 
forces,  actual  if  not  tangible,  which  have  swayed  mankind 
through  the  ages,  should  in  that  emancipated  isolation  use 
all  and  every  means  to  one  sole  end:  the  complete  knowl- 
edge of  man  as  an  organism,  in  order,  through  that 
knowledge,  to  arrive  at  the  discovery  of  antidotes  to  all 
diseases. 

The  message  of  hope  was  this:  that  men  should  escape, 
not  death  indeed,  but  the  fear  of  death,  by  the  prolongation 
of  life  to  an  extent  which  would  make  death  welcome  when^ 
it  came.  Man  would  drink  so  largely  of  the  cup  of  life,  as 
to  long  for  the  end  of  the  draught ;  become  so  satiated  with 
living,  as  to  crave  extinction  as  a  boon. 

In  describing  the  manner  of  this  prolongation,  Hall  pro- 
pounded his  famous  phagocyte  theory  of  senile  degenera- 
tion; of  the  atrophy  of  the  higher  and  specific  cells  of  a 
tissue  and  their  replacement  by  hypertrophied  connective 


350  PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

tissue;  and  of  the  possibility  of  preventing  degeneration 
by  strengthening  the  higher  elements.  The  strengthening 
was  to  be  accomplished  by  means  of  the  favourite  child  of 
physiological  science,  the  serum ;  and,  having  discussed  the 
effects  of  certain  sera  as  demonstrated  by  experiments, 
•'There  seems  here,"  he  wrote,  "a  rational  method  by  which 
we  may  strive  to  strengthen  the  higher  elements  of  the 
human  body,  and  so  prevent  them  from  growing  old." 

And  the  task  seemed  at  first  sight  such  an  easy  one,  so 
simple  of  fulfilment.  All  that  was  necesary  was  to  mince 
to  fine  atoms  the  organs  of  a  dead  human  body ;  the  heart, 
brain,  liver,  kidney  or  any  other  organ,  the  higher  elements 
of  which,  in  living  bodies,  required  strengthening ;  to  inject 
these  atoms  into  an  animal ;  and  in  a  few  weeks  to  draw  off 
sera  which  would  act  in  the  desired  way.  In  reality  the 
difficulty  of  removing  organs  from  dead  bodies,  sufficiently 
soon  after  death  to  be  in  a  suitable  condition  for  injection, 
presented,  as  Hall  observed,  a  serious  practical  obstacle; 
and  even  were  this  obstacle  overcome,  much  time  would  be 
required,  many  experiments,  before  the  method  could  be 
perfected. 

Gale,  held  by  interest,  influenced  by  the  persuasive  atmos- 
phere which  the  sincerity  of  the  writer  had  infused  into  his 
book,  passing  from  the  probable  to  the  possible,  from  the 
possible  to  the  plausible,  was  arrested  here  by  the  protest 
of  his  reason. 

Dreams  of  immortality,  of  man's  divinity  and  God's 
reality,  were  they  wilder  than  this  scheme  for  the  preserva- 
tion of  the  body?  Was  this  all  logical  inference  from  ob- 
served facts,  as  the  Stethoscope  claimed  ?  Was  there  in  it 
nothing  of  the  vain  imaginations  of  megalomania?  Was 
science,  isolated  from  all  points  of  view  save  the  material, 
admitting  no  reality  save  physical  phenomena,  no  hope 


PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS  351 

save  in  the  understanding  of  those  phenomena,  free  indeed 
from  phantasy,  entirely  exempt  from,  the  bias  of  an  un- 
related attitude? 

And  for  the  message  of  hope?  If  this  latest  prophet 
were  a  true  one,  if  this  new  gospel  were  to  realise  itself  in 
practical  fulfilment  of  its  promises,  would  man  find  con- 
tentment, happiness,  peace,  the  answer  to  all  his  question- 
ing, the  satisfaction  of  all  his  desires,  in  the  prolongation 
of  physical  life  till  such  time  as  he  should  tire  of  it?  That 
life  would  be  cut  off  from  contact  with  the  great  ones  of 
the  past;  from  the  conceptions  of  philosophers,  the  "fine 
frenzy"  of  poets,  the  contemplation  of  states  of  conscious- 
ness other  than  the  material.  For  man,  emancipated,  free 
from  the  fear  of  death,  would  find  no  interest  in  exploded 
theories,  founded  on  that  fear.  Of  mental  interests  there 
would  remain  science;  of  art,  the  branches  that  appeal  to 
the  senses;  of  pleasures,  physical  enjoyment.  The  soul  of 
literature,  of  art,  of  imagination,  would  perish  with  the 
soul  of  man. 

Was  the  gain  worth  the  price?  Did  the  end  commend 
the  means.-'  Would  man,  trampling  on  those  weaker  than 
himself,  denying  his  higher  intuitions,  abjuring  the  im- 
mortal to  put  on  an  added  mortality;  would  man  gain 
much? 

Gale,  questioning,  formulated  his  answer  in  yet  another 
question:  "What  shall  it  profit  a  man  if  he  gain  the  whole 
world  and  lose  his  own  soul?" 


CHAPTER  LI 

AND  as  he  sat  thinking  of  Hall's  great  book,  the  door 
opened,  and  Hall  himself  came  in. 

"Hall!"  Gale  leapt  to  his  feet.  To  him,  in  his  aston- 
ishment and  his  subjection  to  the  traditions  of  unscientific 
thought,  it  seemed  for  the  moment  as  if  it  were  the  ghostly 
and  not  the  actual  presentment  of  his  former  friend  who 
stood  there  looking  at  him. 

"The  last  man  you  were  thinking  of,  I  suppose?" 

"No,  I  happened  just  to  be  thinking  of  you.  But  the 
last  man,  certainly,  that  I  expected  to  see.  Come  and  sit 
down.  How  on  earth  did  you  get  here?" 

"Cab." 

"Yes — but  the  cab Don't  answer  me  by  saying 

<horse.' " 

"I  saw  Burdon  yesterday,  and  he  told  me."  Hall  turned 
his  glance  from  the  fire  to  Gale's  face.  "Jove !  what  a  fool 
you've  made  of  yourself !"  he  said. 

Gale  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "You  always  thought  me 
a  fool,  so  you  shouldn't  be  surprised." 

"Not  a  fool,"  corrected  Hall;  "you  were  a  rowdy  ass  as 
a  student,  but  I  knew  you  had  brains." 

"Thanks  awfully,"  said  Gale.  Hall's  plain  speaking  put 
him  at  his  ease ;  this  was  not  the  famous  scientist  who  was 
talking  to  him,  but  the  companion  of  his  school  and  hos- 
pital days. 

"But  now "  said  Hall,  and  gave  a  French  shrug  of 

his  shoulders.    Gale's  shrug  had  been  English. 

853 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS  35S 

"Is  it  worse  to  be  born  a  fool  or  to  have  folly  thrust 
upon  you  ?  Mine  was  thrust  upon  me  by  what  I  should  call 
conviction  and  you  would  call  rot." 

x-At  one  time  I  thought  you  were  going  to  make  a  name ; 
and  you  might  have.  You  made  me  uneasy  that  evening 
in  Paris,  though.  After  that  I  wasn't  really  surprised." 

"I  don't  know  that  it  matters  enormously  whether  you 
make  a  name." 

"It  matters,  perhaps  you  will  allow,  whether  you  make 
a  living." 

Gale  flushed.    "Yes.    But  not  supremely,"  he  added. 

"I  should  have  said  it  did — supremely;  for  without  a 
living  you  can  do  nothing." 

"I'll  ease  your  concrete  and  particular  fears  by  assuring 
you  that  we  have  enough  to  live  on.  Speaking  in  the 
abstract  and  generally,  that's  just  where  we  differ,  you  and 
I — as  to  what  matters  supremely." 

"Well,  what  does,  according  to  Sidney  Gale?" 

"It  sounds  a  bit  priggish,  put  in  two  words,  but  I  mean 
it,  so  here  goes — ethical  healthiness." 

"Morality !"  Hall's  lip  curled  in  the  old  way.  "Is  that 
the  bog  you've  stuck  in?" 

"Call  it  a  bog  if  you  like.  I  call  it  terra  firma.  Anyhow, 
that's  where  I  am;  and  I'd  rather  be  there — stuck,  if  you 
like — than  follow  the  will-o'-the-wisp  you're  following 
here."  Gale  put  his  hand  on  the  book  he  had  been  reading. 

"Ah,  my  book!  May  I  ask  what  you  call  the  will-o'- 
the-wisp  ?" 

"The  idea  of  making  people  happy  by  letting  them  live 
on  till  they've  had  enough  of  it.  And  the  means  of  doing 
it — feeding  them  upon  sera  obtained  from  the  organs  of 
their  dead  fellows.  You  used  to  be  a  sober  enough  chap ; 
but  this  seems  to  me,  frankly,  the  idea  of  a  monomaniac." 


354.  PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

"I  state  that  it  isn't  perfected,  that  it  will  require  much 
time  to  work  it  out." 

"It's  the  conception  that  seems  to  me  so  wild." 

"You're  frank,  at  any  rate." 

"Always  was,  if  you  remember.  And  besides,  you  vivi- 
sectionists  can't  expect  to  have  nothing  but  praise  and  the 
unlimited  and  sole  right  of  blackguarding.  You  pour  out 
contempt  and  scorn  upon  us;  you  call  us  fools  and  retro- 
grade and  sentimental  and  what  not ;  but  you  expect  to  be 
exempt  from  criticism." 

"We  get  it,  though;  not  in  France,  but  from  the  British 
public — unenlightened  and  stupid  as  it  always  has  been 
and  will  be." 

"You'd  get  a  good  deal  more  if  it  were  more  enlightened 
and  less  stupid.  It's  the  ignorance  of  the  public,  French 
as  well  as  English,  that  allows  you  to  go  on." 

Hall's  lip  curled  again.  "Science,"  he  said,  "is  superior 
to  public  opinion." 

"And  to  mine  of  course,  who  am  extra  private;  a  private, 
in  fact,  in  the  army  which  is  fighting  against  you." 

"An  army,  you  call  it?  I  should  say  one  small  regiment 
fighting  for  a  forlorn  hope." 

"It's  forlorn  hopes  that  have  inspired  the  world — and 
conquered  it  in  the  end.  And  then  we  have  new  recruits 
every  day,  even  in  France.  We  shall  have  an  international 
league  against  you  before  long." 

Hall  smiled.  "Meanwhile  the  scientific  spirit  grows:  in 
England  enormously.  You  are  beginning  to  see  over  here 
that  research  should  be  undertaken  quite  apart  from  its 
directly  utilitarian  bearing,  in  a  spirit  of  mere  curiosity.  I 
dined  with  Langford  last  night,  and  he  said  straight  out 
that  the  greatest  asset  which  a  nation  can  have  is  to  have 
amongst  itself  a  number  of  men  endowed  with  this  mere 


PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS  355 

curiosity,  men  who  will  put  everything  second  to  the  ad- 
vancement of  knowledge.1  Good  that  for  an  Englishman." 

"Oh,  if  you  call  that  good,  virtue  is  not  lacking  over 
here.  I  remember  De  Watteville,  years  ago,  saying  that 
moral  and  pecuniary  support  should  not  be  refused  to  hos- 
pitals on  the  ground  that  their  inmates  are  made  use  of 
otherwise  than  for  treatment.2  That,  of  course,  is  the 
logical  outcome  of  what  you  call  the  scientific  attitude. 
That  attitude  would  commend  the  action  of  Doyen  in 
taking  a  bit  of  cancerous  matter  out  of  a  woman's  bad 
breast  and  inserting  it  into  the  healthy  one.3  That  attitude 
would  applaud  murder,  if  the  murder  of  the  few  were  of 
benefit  to  the  many." 

Again  Hall  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Problematical 
ethics  hardly  interest  me.  I  tell  you  I  am  not  concerned 
with  morality.  I  acknowledge  but  one  duty — hjgiene;  on 
the  altar  of  that  duty  I  lay  everything;  other  people's  mo- 
rality, my  own  time,  strength,  brains,  and  money.  How 
many  people  will  do  that  for  their  God?" 

"All  who  really  believe  in  the  God  they  profess  to 
worship.  As  you  instance  your  own  case,  I  may  instance 
mine.  But  it's  the  same  with  everybody;  you've  only  got 
to  care  enough — whether  the  thing  you  care  for  is  bad  or 
good.  Look  at  the  miser.  He  gives  up  time,  brains,  com- 
fort, friends,  every  enjoyment,  even  the  enjoyment  of 
money,  for  the  sake  of  hoarding.  I  don't  say  your  aim  isn't 
nobler  than  the  miser's,  but  your  methods,  by  Jove!  are 
worse.  For  he  sacrifices  only  himself,  it  is  himself  that 
suffers;  while  you  are  careless  of  who  suffers,  or  what;  of 
how  great  the  suffering  or  how  long." 

"True;  but  both  the  miser  and  I  have  convictions  and 

'App.  37.  'APP.  38.  *App.  39. 


356  PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

act  on  them,  which  alone  makes  us  of  more  worth  than  the 
namby-pamby  person  who  is  supposed  to  have  a  conscience." 

"I  don't  accept  your  premises,  if  you  have  no  regard 
to  the  character  of  the  convictions.  But  anyhow,  if  that's 
what  you  think,  why  do  you  quarrel  with  me  for  acting 
on  mine  ?" 

"Because — look  here,  Gale "  Hall  got  up,  and  Gale 

rose  too,  and  the  two  men  stood  on  the  hearthrug,  facing 
one  another.  "Look  here,  you're  down  on  your  luck.  You 

should  have  been  in  Harley  Street  by  this  time,  and " 

Hall  looked  round  the  little  room ;  not  shabby  exactly,  for 
the  Gales  still  possessed  a  good  deal  of  the  furniture  which 
had  been  their  pride  in  Montagu  Street;  but  mean  in  its 
proportions,  and  pervaded  somehow  by  the  spirit  of  the  poor 
neighbourhood  which  surrounded  it. 

"And  it's  obvious  that  I'm  not,"  said  Gale.    "Well?" 

"I've  come  over  just  for  a  day  or  two,  on  business  I 
needn't  go  into  now.  I  heard  about  you  from  Burdon,  as 
I  said,  and  others  too,  and  I  thought  you  might  have  come 
to  your  senses,  might  take  a  chance  if  it  was  given  you." 

"It's  good  of  you." 

"There's  a  post,  not  much  of  a  one,  but  I  could  get  it 
for  you,  if  you'd  be  sensible — own  yourselves  wrong — you 
and  your  wife." 

"Thanks,  but — you'll  know  from  what  I've  said  that  I 
couldn't  take  it." 

"Don't  go  and  cut  off  your  nose  to  spite  your  face! 
Many  a  man's  taken  up  a  wrong  line  and  dropped  it  again. 
As  for  all  this  romance  about  animals  and  their  rights, 
leave  that  to  the  women  who  keep  pet  dogs;  it  doesn't 
matter  in  them.  But  a  man  with  a  brain  has  something  else 
to  think  about.  Give  up  this  Salvation  Army  sentiment 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  357 

business  and  join  the  priesthood  of  progress:  it's  the  only 
order  with  any  virility." 

Gale  shook  his  head. 

"Can't  you  get  over  your  squeamishness ?"  There  was 
a  sneer  in  Hall's  voice. 

"Do  like  Smidovich,  you  mean.  Have  you  seen  his  book? 
I  can't  quite  remember  how  he  puts  it."  Gale  took  a  book 
from  the  table  and  turned  the  pages  till  he  found  what 
he  wanted.  "Yes,  here  it  is.  'There  is  but  one  way,'  "  he 
read,  "  'that  of  stifling  the  reproaches  of  conscience,  of 
choking  down  pity,  and  closing  one's  eyes  to  the  living 
agony  of  the  animals  sacrified.'1  No,  I  couldn't  do  that. 
I'd  rather  stay  in  what  you  call  the  Salvation  Army." 

"Then  I  may  as  well  say  good-bye." 

"I  have  sometimes  thought "  Gale  went  on.  "You 

know  there  are  men,  Pirigoff  for  one,  and  Haller  for  an- 
other,2 who  have  confessed  to  being  struck,  later  on  hi  life, 
with  a  sense  of  the  horrors  they  have  committed;  and  I 
have  sometimes  thought  that  this  consciousness  may  come 
to  men  who  don't  own  to  it — not  to  all  or  to  most,  for  in 
most  the  capacity  for  pity  is  killed  by  the  things  they  do. 
But  I  have  wondered  sometimes,  when  I  have  heard  of 
inexplicable  suicides,  whether  such  recollections  have  had 
anything  to  do  with  them.  You,  of  course,  will  call  that 
fanciful." 

"All  anti-vivisectionists  are  fanciful,"  said  Hall;  and 
then  he  said  good-bye. 

When  he  had  gone  Gale  went  back  to  the  hearthrug  and 
stood  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  thinking.  Hall's  offer  had 
been  no  temptation  to  him,  and  Hall's  conversation  had 
heartened  rather  than  discouraged  him,  made  him  more 
friendly  towards  his  own  failure. 

'App.  40.  *APP.  4L 


358  PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

Presently  the  door  was  gently  and  slightly  opened,  and 
David's  face  looked  round  it.  Seeing  that  Gale  was  alone, 
she  came  in,  on  tip-toe,  and  with  an  air  of  pretended 
mystery. 

"Was  it  really  and  truly  Edgar  Hall?"  she  asked. 

"Really  and  truly." 

"Jane1  said  so,  but  I  couldn't  believe  my  ears.  Whatever 
brought  him  to  our  poor  little  shanty  ?" 

"He  came  to  offer  me  a  post." 

"Oh,  Sidney,  don't  start  romancing." 

"But  he  did." 

"No!" 

"Yes,  you  sceptic,  yes." 

"But Why?" 

"Because  he  thought  the  Harrow  Road  might  have 
brought  us  to  our  senses." 

"How  did  he  know ?" 

"From  Percy." 

"Oh,  I  see.  Fancy  the  serpent  condescending  to  such  a 
one-horse  shay  sort  of  Paradise.'' 

"I  dare  say  he  meant  it  kindly — though  there  was  a 
latent " 

"Of  course  you  didn't " 

"No,  I  didn't.  You  needn't  turn  me  out,  Angel,  with 
your  flaming  sword." 

"  The  man  tempted  me,  and  I  didn't  eat.  If  it  had  been 
a  woman  now !" 

"If  you  had  tempted  me,  wanted  it,  it  would  have  been 
harder." 

"I?  Oh,  I  couldn't — you  know  I  couldn't — have  taken 
it  in  any  case.  How  did  he  take  your  refusal?" 

"Oh — well — if  his  soul  has  shoulders  I  should  think  it 
would  shrug  'em  all  the  way  home." 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS  359 

"You  were  interested,  though;  your  hair's  so  untidy." 

Gale  passed  his  hand  over  his  head.  "I  was  interested. 
Hall  is  the  same  in  a  way,  yet  so  absolutely  different." 

"He's  probably  himself  developed.  Have  you  finished 
his  book?" 

"Very  nearly.    I  was  at  it  when  he  came  in." 

"Well?" 

"It's  full  of  learning,  full  of  theories,  full  of  brains." 

"Yes,  but  the  gist  of  it?" 

"The  gist?"  Gale  thought  a  minute.  "You  know  the 
saying,  'Death  before  dishonour5?" 

David  nodded.    "Of  course." 

"Well,  the  gist  of  Hall's  book  is  that  same  saying,  only 
just  the  other  way  on;  dishonour — every  and  any  sort  of 
cruelty,  cowardice,  oppression — before  death." 


CHAPTER  LII 

GALE  was  right:  Hall's  mental  attitude,  as  he  drove 
away  from  Falmouth  Street,  was  one  of  shrugged 
shoulders.  His  motives  in  making  his  offer  had  been  as 
mixed  as  are  the  motives  of  most  men  when  they  pride 
themselves  on  being  generous.  He  was  willing  to  help  his 
old  friend  for  the  sake,  he  told  himself,  of  the  old  friend- 
ship ;  but  he  could  not  rid  himself  of  a  certain  satisfaction 
at  being  in  a  position  to  play  the  benevolent  patron.  In 
their  student  days  Gale  had  taken  the  upper  hand,  had 
been  carelessly  arrogant,  had  received  the  larger  share  of 
the  devotion  which  Percy  Burdon  had  divided  between  him 
and  Hall ;  had,  moreover,  been  called  brilliant,  whereas  Hall 
had  had  to  put  up  with  the  adjective  "steady." 

It  could  not  be  said  that  these  things  rankled  in  Hall's 
mind;  yet  it  would  not  have  been  disagreeable  to  know 
Gale  grateful  instead  of  lordly ;  it  would  have  been  pleasant 
to  hear  him  confess  himself  in  the  wrong;  it  would  have 
been  more  than  pleasant  to  hear  Mrs.  Gale  join  in  the 
confession.  But  now  they  had  refused  his  helping  hand; 
they  must  therefore  lie  on  their  bed  as  they  had  made  it; 
Hall  felt  that  if  they  ended  in  the  workhouse,  it  was  really 
no  more  than  they  deserved.  Then,  with  a  final  shrug,  he 
dismissed  the  thought  of  them;  he  had  done  more  than 
there  was  any  need  to  do,  and  his  mind,  turning  to  his  own 
particular  interests,  had  no  space  to  spare  for  the  per- 
versities of  failure. 

The  next  day  he  returned  to  Paris.  A  fresh  consignment 

360 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS  361 

of  apes  was  due ;  and,  after  years  of  experiment,  he  thought 
he  saw  the  approach  of  success.  It  was  all  very  well  to 
inoculate  women  and  children  in  hospitals;  science  no 
doubt  had  gained  much  from  such  practices;  but  the  num- 
ber of  human  subjects  available  was  necessarily  limited. 
Prejudice  stood  in  the  way,  and  though  the  public  was 
obligingly  indifferent,  old-fashioned  ideas  might  assert 
themselves  at  any  moment.  The  only  sure  and  satisfactory 
way  was  to  introduce  the  great  scourge  of  humanity  into 
the  animal  world. 

Hitherto  Hall,  as  well  as  everybody  else,  had  failed  in 
achieving  this  result;  it  seemed  as  if  on  a  race  free  from 
vice  the  special  disease  of  vice  could  not  be  imposed.  To 
all  other  diseases  animals  had  succumbed  at  the  hands  of 
man  (though  the  cancer  induced  in  animals  was  unfortu- 
nately different  from  human  cancer) ;  but  from  this  one 
malady  remained  immune.  But  now  Hall  thought  he  saw 
his  way  to  its  propagation;  and  for  the  next  few  months, 
in  company  with  a  chosen  colleague,  all  his  energies  were 
devoted  to  the  introduction  of  the  most  loathsome  of  dis- 
eases into  the  bodies  of  the  apes  delivered  over  to  him. 

In  the  meantime,  in  the  street  off  the  Harrow  Road, 
Sidney  Gale  began  a  new  career ;  in  a  different  spirit,  in  a 
different  atmosphere,  with  a  different  aim  from  the  career 
he  had  set  out  on  when  he  left  St.  Anne's.  Ambition  was 
banished  perforce;  he  sought  at  first  only  to  earn  enough 
money  to  make  the  proverbial  two  ends  meet. 

But,  beginning  in  a  spirit  of  dogged  persistence,  by  and 
by,  as  he  worked,  old  interests  revived  and  took  on  a  new 
vigour ;  interests  that  had  occupied  him  in  other  days  when 
he  had  studied  disease  in  the  slums.  In  those  days  he  had 
learned  much ;  but  he  learned  now  in  a  wider  way ;  realising 
that  those  people  who  were  so  often  the  victims  of  disease 


362  PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

were  always  and  emphatically  human  beings;  fragments 
of  society,  citizens  of  the  nation,  an  important  part  of  the 
community,  having  a  direct  hearing  on  its  welfare.  As  he 
lived  and  worked  in  this  poorer  quarter  of  the  town,  many 
things  were  made  plain  to  Gale  which  are  constantly  hid 
from  the  successful  and  the  famous.  He  learned  that  men 
and  women,  struggling  for  food,  clothes,  shelter,  differ  not 
at  all  from  the  women  and  the  men  who  strive  after  posi- 
tion, wealth,  and  fame;  are  open  to  the  same  incentives, 
liable  to  the  same  impulses  of  meanness  and  generosity; 
differ  not  at  all,  save  that  amongst  the  struggling  poor  the 
incentives  are  more  imperative,  the  impulses  take  their  rise 
in  more  primitive  needs ;  the  meanness  is  less  disguised,  the 
generosity  more  nearly  allied  to  heroism. 

And  he  learned,  he  and  David  together,  working  side  by 
side  for  a  living  and  a  home,  fighting  side  by  side  for  the 
progress  of  the  cause  they  had  taken  up,  learned  to  see  in 
the  problems  of  life,  not  a  series  of  isolated  and  conflicting 
questions,  but  the  component  parts  of  one  related  whole. 
They  saw  that  science  is  only  at  war  with  philosophy, 
religion,  morality  when  it  narrows  its  scope  to  particular 
fields  of  its  own  domain,  cutting  off  the  correspondence 
between  all  phenomenal  manifestation.  They  saw  that 
sociology  is  related  to  hygiene,  hygiene  to  philosophy,  phi- 
losophy to  ethics,  ethics  again  to  sociology.  They  saw  that 
disease  cannot  be  dealt  with  by  medicine  alone;  that 
religious  teaching  is  inadequate  to  cope  with  starvation; 
that  science,  single-handed,  is  powerless  against  poverty. 
Seeing  all  this,  and  not  turning  in  disgust  or  despair  from 
the  sight,  but  studying  in  all  sincerity  the  conditions  about 
him,  gradually  Gale's  ambition  changed;  was  transformed 
from  the  desire  to  dominate  into  the  wish  to  serve.  In  his 
younger  days,  fame,  brilliant  on  the  heights  to  which  men's 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  363 

eyes  turn  enviously,  had  beckoned  to  him  with  compelling 
hand :  now  looking  on  the  depths  about  him,  he  found  that 
what  he  wanted  most  to  do  was  to  kindle  a  little  light 
within  their  shades.  Much  talk  he  had  heard  of  science 
and  the  debt  owed  her  by  humanity;  but  when  science  bal- 
anced her  books,  there  were  items  in  these  shades,  it  seemed 
to  Gale,  which  could  not  be  left  out  of  the  account. 

"To  think,"  he  said  one  day,  "of  Hall  elaborating  a 
method  of  prolonging  life,  when  the  conditions  of  masses  of 
people  make  the  attainment  even  of  maturity  impossible; 
and  when  workmen,  after  forty,  yes,  and  even  before  forty, 
are  constantly  refused  the  chance  of  earning  a  livelihood ! 
It's  pure  mockery." 

"How  can  a  man  know  life  from  a  laboratory?"  asked 
Cameron.  "I  could  take  him  to  streets  in  Paris  where  the 
doctrine  of  salvation  by  sera  would  seem  lamentably  inade- 
quate." 

"No,  you  couldn't,"  said  David.  "I  have  been  with  him 
through  such  streets,  and  he  saw  nothing  outside  his  own 
conceptions.  For  him  salvation  is  only  for  the  few — the 
idle,  chiefly,  and  the  morbid,  who  are  haunted  by  the  fear 
of  death.  All  the  people  who  toil  and  suffer  are  to  go  on 
toiling,  suffering,  dying,  degenerating." 

"It's  curious,"  said  Gale,  "that  medical  science,  since  it 
has  been  led  by  vivisection,  seems  to  have  said  good-bye 
not  only  to  morality,  but  to  common  sense.  It  seems  to 
forget  that  it  was  common  sense — cleanliness,  sanitation — 
which  stamped  out  cholera,  plague,  typhus;  that  it  was  the 
muzzling  order  which  rid  England  of  hydrophobia;  that 
scarlet  fever  which  is  uncombated  by  a  serum  has  declined 
as  much  with  the  improvement  of  sanitation  as  small-pox 
aided  by  a  vaccine." 

"I  don't  think  it's  curious  at  all,"  said  Cameron. 


36*  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

"No,  nor  do  I  really;  it  was  a  figure  of  speech." 

"People  talk  of  ends  justifying  means;  but  often  if  a 
body  of  men  gets  possessed  by  an  idea,  they  subordinate 
results  to  methods.  Look  at  Semmelweiss,  who  more  than 
half  a  century  ago  discovered  antiseptic  surgery,  who  dem- 
onstrated the  truth  of  his  discovery  by  the  fact  that  his 
patients  lived,  and  patients  treated  in  the  old  way  died; 
who  was  hounded  into  a  lunatic  asylum  by  the  profession; 
and  whose  theories,  when  advanced  by  Pasteur  and  Lister, 
were  accepted  and  acclaimed.1  Eeason,  deduction,  the  care 
of  patients,  were  out  of  court;  only  one  proof  availed  with 
the  orthodox — the  proof  by  means  of  vivisection." 

"One  of  the  latest  sera,  I  hear,"  said  David,  "is  a  serum 
against  fatigue.  Judy  told  me  about  it.  A  German  doctor, 
Weichardt,  takes  guinea-pigs  and  makes  them  run  on  a 
miniature  treadmill  till  they  fall  dead  from  exhaustion; 
and  from  the  fatigued  muscles  he  has  succeeded  in  pro- 
ducing an  anti-fatigue  toxin." 

"Yes,  I've  heard  of  it,"  said  Cameron.  "It's  the  idea 
of  a  neurotic.  The  experiments  are  described  by  Dr.  Carl 
Snyder — in  the  Monthly,  I  think  Judy  said.  He  calls  them 
fascinating."2 

"I  dare  say  they  are — to  him.  This  idea  of  prolonging 
bodily  existence  somehow,  anyhow,  is  bound  to  distort  the 
imaginations  of  the  men  who  are  a  prey  to  it;  and  I  fancy 
fcinyder  is  one." 

"Evidently,  from  what  Judy  says.  I  have  not  read  the 
article." 

"I  shouldn't  bother  to,  if  I  were  you.  I've  glanced 
through  it,  and  it's  just  the  same  idea  as  Hall's.  Tell  me, 
how  is  Judy  getting  on  ?" 

*App.  42.  *App.  43. 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  365 

"Well,  slowly;  but  surely,  she  says.  It's  up-hill  work, 
of  course,  but  you  know  her  energy." 

"When  I  first  knew  Judith  Home,"  said  Cameron — 
"Judith  West  she  was  then — she  was  a  sort  of  leader  of 
fashion;  of  advanced  views  always,  but  fashionable  first 
and  advanced  after." 

"When  you  first  knew  me,"  said  David,  "I  was  a  rising 
artist." 

"And  now  you're  risen." 

"Just  about  as  high  as  the  horizon." 

David  had  sought,  in  her  poorest  days,  to  turn  her  girl- 
hood's talent  to  account,  and,  commercially  speaking,  had 
met  with  some  success.  She  smiled  sometimes  as  she 
worked  at  Christmas  and  birthday  cards,  at  menus  and 
illustrations  for  catalogues,  and  looked  back  to  the  days 
of  the  pink  overalls  or  the  more  splendid  ones  of  the  studio 
on  Campden  Hill.  The  smile,  perhaps,  was  not  devoid  of 
wistfulness.  Her  dreams  of  fame  had  been  as  sweet,  as 
brilliant,  if  not  as  definite  and  as  well  based  as  Sidney's; 
and  they  had  ended  in  painting  cards  at  so  much  a  dozen 
in  Falmouth  Street  off  the  Harrow  Road ! 

But  she  made  money;  and  money,  too,  was  sweet  when 
it  meant  new  clothes  and  better  education  for  the  children; 
hers  and  Sidney's.  She  never  forgot  Vi,  the  child  whose 
suffering  had  made  for  herself  a  special  place,  created  a 
special  tenderness ;  the  thought  of  that  child  was  often  in 
her  mind  when  she  did  not  speak  of  her,  even  to  Sidney; 
in  her  mother's  heart  Vi's  memory  was  immortal.  But 
these  other  children,  healthy  and  strong,  were  dear  to  her 
in  another,  perhaps  even  a  deeper,  way;  they  were  the  off- 
spring of  her  woman's  love,  and  were  girt  about  with  the 
joy  of  that  love  as  well  as  with  the  tenderness  of  maternity. 

When,  presently,  David  had  left  the  room,  Cameron 


PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

turned  to  Gale.  "Talking  of  old  times,  laddie,"  he  said 
(he  still  called  the  man  sometimes  by  the  name  he  had 
used  to  the  boy),  "do  you  mind,  when  you  first  came  to 
my  rooms,  how  we  talked  of  greatness  and  failure?" 

"To  be  sure.  Certain  things  you  said  have  always  stuck 
in  my  mind.  But  it's  odd  that  you  should  remember." 

"I've  not  lost  my  memory  yet — at  least,  not  for  the 
things  a  bit  back." 

"You  said  I  might  be  a  great  man  or  a  great  surgeon, 
I  remember;  and  I  remember  that,  when  you  said  it,  I 
tingled  all  over.  And  now — I'm  neither." 

"I'm  no  so  sure.  And  you  said  you  wouldn't  mind  fail- 
ure, if  you  failed  splendidly." 

"This" — Gale  waved  an  indicating  hand — "is  hardly 
splendid."  He  laughed.  "What  a  conceited  young  ass  I 
must  have  been !" 

Cameron  did  not  answer  at  once;  then  he  said:  "He 
was  despised  and  rejected  of  men;  a  man  of  sorrows,  and 
acquainted  with  grief;  sorrows  not  all  His  own;  a  grief 
not  selfish.  That's  teepical,"  he  added,  with  the  Scotch 
accent  that  always  turned  his  tongue  when  it  uttered  what 
he  strongly  felt.  "You  cannot  win  the  right  to  the  great 
renunciation  without  being  a  bit  finer  than  your  fellows; 
you  cannot  make  it  without  falling,  in  their  eyes,  a  long 
way  below  them." 


CHAPTER  LIII 

THREE  years  later  Hall  was  again  in  England;  but 
this  time  he  did  not  find  his  way  to  Falmouth  Street. 
He  had  come  over  to  give  the  Harben  Lectures,  and  his  time 
was  spent  in  the  company  of  distinguished  scientists. 

Nor  did  he  even  so  much  as  think  of  the  Gales.  Three 
years  ago  he  had  dismissed  them  from  his  mind;  they 
belonged  no  more  to  the  world  with  which  he  was  con- 
cerned, but  were  cast  into  the  outer  darkness  reserved  for 
moralists,  philosophers,  and  anti-vivisectionists. 

Percy  Burdon  came  up  from  Essex  to  welcome  him ;  and 
was  continually  coming  up  from  Essex,  whenever  he  could 
spare  a  day  or  half  a  day,  to  revive  and  cement  the  former 
friendship.  Hall  was  a  little  bored  by  Percy,  whose  pre- 
sumption on  the  claim  of  old  acquaintance  was  more  ef- 
fusive than  discreet.  To  be  sure  he  had  now  the  whole  of 
that  allegiance  which  had  once  been  shared  with  Gale;  for 
Percy,  though  he  had  still  a  soft  spot  in  his  heart  for  "old 
Sidney,"  was  too  much  disappointed  by  his  quondam 
paragon's  failure  to  make  a  name  to  retain  for  him  the 
admiration  which  had  been  once  his  unquestionable  tribute. 

His  admiration  now  was  all  for  Hall,  and  stories  of  the 
great  man's  youth  were  retailed  by  him  at  the  dinner 
parties  in  Langborough  and  for  miles  around.  For  Percy 
was  widely  known  in  the  county  now;  he  had  fulfilled  his 
intention  of  keeping  abreast  of  the  times;  was  talked  of  as 

867 


368  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

up  to  date  and  versed  in  the  latest  surgical  and  medical 
science  of  the  day;  and  had  removed  gall  bladders — not 
to  speak  of  other  parts  of  the  human  frame — without  im- 
mediately disastrous  results  to  the  patients;  that  is  to  say, 
to  all  of  them.  Some  perished ;  but  Burdon  always  assured 
their  friends  that  they  would  have  died  in  any  case,  and, 
unassisted  by  himself,  in  greater  agonies  than  those  in- 
flicted by  the  tenderness  of  scientific  perspicacity.  And  the 
friends,  with  unquestioning  confidence — for  the  most  part 
— laid  the  flattering  unction  to  their  souls  and  were  con- 
tent. So  Burdon  prospered,  and  his  Polly,  grown  matronly, 
was  proud  of  him. 

Nevertheless,  though  he  might  draw  flames  from  the 
Colne,  he  was  hardly  competent  to  set  fire  to  the  Thames ; 
and  his  continual  visits  to  the  capital  had  upon  Hall  some- 
thing of  the  effect  of  repeated  efforts  to  strike  damp 
matches.  Percy  was  not  even  a  match  from  Hall's  point  of 
view;  but  he  would  persist  in  trying  to  strike  himself — on 
Hall,  and  never  got  further  than  spluttering,  which  was 
irritating  to  a  shining  light  needing  no  aid  from  indiscrim- 
inate sparks. 

Edgar  Hall's  lectures  were  three  in  number.  They  were 
eagerly  looked  forward  to,  largely  attended,  highly  ap- 
plauded. They  were  distinguished  by  the  knowledge  which 
he  had  acquired;  by  the  intelligence  which  was  innate  in 
him ;  by  the  lucidity  of  which  he  was  a  master ;  and  by  the 
faith  in  his  own  premises  and  methods  which  are  as  neces- 
§ary  to  the  orthodox  scientist  as  to  the  dogmatic  religionist. 

The  last  lecture  was  specially  interesting,  in  that  it  con- 
tained what  might  be  looked  upon  as  his  profession  of  faith, 
the  sum  of  his  philosophy;  for  no  man,  though  he  may 
repudiate  the  philosophies  of  others,  can  escape  from  one  of 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS  869 

his  own.  Certainly  Edgar  Hall  could  not,  as  is  testified  by 
the  third  of  his  Harben  Lectures.1 

The  subject  of  this  final  lecture  was  that  world-wide 
disease  which,  together  with  certain  other  world-wide  hor- 
rors, is  labelled  unmentionable;  the  disease  which  for  the 
last  several  years  had  engaged  Hall's  attention  and  ingenu- 
ity; the  disease  which  for  so  long  had  been  rejected,  against 
all  attempts  to  propagate  it,  by  the  animal  world.  But 
Edgar  Hall  had  triumphed  over  the  barriers  of  kingdom, 
had  triumphed  over  all  barriers  which  stood,  or  might  have 
stood,  in  the  way  of  his  success.  For  him,  indeed,  the 
divisions  of  Nature's  kingdoms  could  hardly  be  said  to 
exist  save  as  convenient  modes  of  classification.  For  him 
there  existed  only  intelligence  and  the  prey  of  intelligent ; 
the  difference  between  sentient  and  non-sentient  life  carried 
no  significance,  except  that  creatures  who  could  feel  pain, 
suffer  starvation,  be  subjected  to  disease,  presented  a  more 
potent  field  for  the  researches  of  science  than  did  that  of  in- 
organic matter.  His  attitude  was  the  attitude  of  modern 
science;  and  the  attitude  of  large  numbers  of  the  lay  public; ; 
who  assume  it  either  without  thought ;  with  that  confusion 
of  thought  common  to  those  who,  while  professing  belief 
in  spirit,  subordinate  the  attributes  of  spirit — love,  mercy, 
courage — to  the  immediate  welfare  of  the  flesh ;  or  with  the 
frank  and  logical  selfishness  of  tbe  avowed  materialist. 

Hall,  firm  in  that  faith  of  selfishness  which  makes  all 
things  in  the  way  of  cruelty  possible,  had  achieved  success : 
he  had  infected  the  animal  world  with  the  supreme  disease 
of  vice.  His  third  lecture  dealt  with  the  experiments  which 
that  success  had  enabled  him  to  make. 

In  its  course  he  spoke  of  the  wide  extent  of  the  malady 
which  he  was  discussing;  of  the  rapid  spread  of  infection, 

'App.  44. 


370  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

in  districts  unprotected  by  ordinary  hygienic  precautions; 
of  the  importance  of  combating  its  ravages.  The  experi- 
ments he  described  were  the  means  by  which  he  sought  to 
forge  weapons  for  the  combat ;  characteristic  weapons ;  sera, 
vaccines,  ointments.  The  one  weapon  which  he  did  not 
suggest  was  an  axe  which  might  be  laid  at  the  root  of  the 
tree:  his  aim  was  to  allow  the  tree  to  grow  and  then  to 
render  it  barren.  For  the  curbing  of  bodily  desires  was 
contrary  to  Edgar  Hall's  philosophy.  He,  to  be  sure,  had 
sacrificed  much  to  the  cause  of  that  science  in  which  he 
found  richer  pleasures  than  those  which  he  denied  himself ; 
but,  from  the  substitution  of  one  desire  for  another,  he 
drew  no  suggestion  of  a  principle.  Control  of  instincts  was 
inseparable,  for  him,  from  the  medieval  idea  of  asceticism, 
denial  for  denial's  sake,  an  end  in  itself.  He  had  not  faced, 
or  facing  had  not  grasped,  the  conception  that  it  is  worth 
while  to  subdue  an  impulse  for  the  sake  of  evolving  a  force ; 
that  the  basis  of  the  law  of  sacrifice  is  not  futile  waste  but 
fuller  attainment. 

For  him,  then,  inclination  justified  indulgence.  There 
could  be  no  doubt,  he  stated  in  his  lecture,  that  the  restric- 
tion of  liberty  in  sexual  matters  was  disagreeable  and 
vexatious :  yet  the  regulation  of  vice  in  the  present  order  of 
things  was,  even  though  its  action  were  imperfect,  unfortu- 
nately necessary.  Progress  lay,  as  lies  all  progress  as  de- 
fined by  the  new  order  of  priesthood,  in  the  direction,  not 
of  the  abolition  of  an  evil,  but  in  the  discovery  of  an  anti- 
dote to  its  discomforts.  It  would  be  a  great  step  forward, 
he  asserted,  if  some  method  were  arrived  at,  which  made 
regulation  and  all  intervention  by  public  authorities  super- 
fluous; and  thus  insured  mankind  against  the  consequences 
of  vice  by  practical  and  simple  means,  dependent  only  on 
the  will  of  those  risking  contagion. 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  371 

The  search  for  a  serum  to  achieve  this  end  had  been  so 
far  a  failure,  in  spite  of  the  time,  the  intelligence,  and  the 
animals  devoted  to  the  quest :  he  was  disposed  to  think  that 
in  the  direction  of  vaccines  lay  a  better  prospect  of  success. 
Yet  vaccination,  if  used  on  a  large  scale,  might  bring  about 
'  awkward  complications,  and  could,  possibly,  only  be  applied 
to  those  persons  subject  to  the  greatest  risk.  Its  first  sub- 
jects, said  the  lecturer,  would  have  to  be  young  girls,  the 
beginners  in  prostitution;  since  to  them  and  their  clients 
vaccination  would  be  an  undoubted  advantage.  No  con- 
siderations of  a  moralising  tendency  should  be  allowed  to 
interfere  with  any  and  every  means  of  fighting  this  foe  to 
man's  physical  liberty ;  nay,  averred  Hall,  even  though  some 
of  the  finest  works  of  genius  were  undoubtedly  due  to  the 
cerebral  excitement  caused  by  its  action. 

And  then,  in  the  last  words  of  the  lecture,  came  the 
summed-up,  definite  declaration  of  Edgar  Hall's  faith.  In 
the  religions  of  old,  he  allowed,  hygienic  precepts  occupied 
an  important  place ;  but  he  drew  from  the  fact  no  deduction 
as  to  the  possibility  of  religion  and  hygiene  having  a  com- 
mon and  inseparable  origin.  On  the  contrary,  he  insisted 
upon  the  necessity  of  their  divorce;  and,  that  achieved, 
hygiene  was  to  be  queen  and  morality  slave.  Morality 
should  not  attempt  to  lead  hygiene,  but  should  rather  follow 
her.  Hygiene  should  reign  supreme,  said  he  in  his  perora- 
tion, over  all  moralising  doctrines. 

The  large  hall,  crowded  with  listeners,  rang  with  cheer 
after  cheer :  the  representatives  of  science  gave  to  science's 
high  priest  a  great  ovation.  He  had  declared  their  faith, 
and  they  affirmed  it;  he  had  pointed  out  their  goal,  and 
they  acknowledged  it  England  was  no  laggard  in  the  path 


372  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

of  progress;  England  recognised  and  acclaimed  the  leader 
of  a  world-wide  gospel. . 

She  gave  him,  by  the  hands  of  her  representative  scien- 
tists, a  gold  medal:  she  cheered  him  afresh  as  she  pre- 
sented it. 

"The  old  order  changeth,  giving  place  to  new,"  and  the 
old  order,  as  the  cheering  crowd  conceived  it,  was  con- 
demned that  night  by  their  cheers;  its  prejudices  flung 
aside,  its  ideals  overthrown.  On,  on,  into  the  new  kingdom, 
ruled  by  the  new  priesthood,  fashioned  by  the  new  progress ! 

In  that  kingdom  morality  has  no  place,  and  mercy  finds 
no  foothold :  on  its  threshold  stands  love,  and  looks  linger- 
ingly  at  the  travesty  of  herself  that  has  usurped  her  place. 
In  that  kingdom  men,  emancipated,  knowing  that  they 
have  no  being  save  in  the  material;  no  hope  save  in  the 
lengthening  of  mortal  life;  no  joy  that  transcends  the 
physical;  no  victories  to  achieve  save  the  conquest  of  the 
forces  of  Nature,  the  seizure  of  her  secrets,  the  subjugation 
of  her  laws;  need  only  to  go  on  from  freedom  to  greater 
freedom,  from  knowledge  to  completer  knowledge,  till 
science  has  banished  all  prejudices  of  compunction,  all 
necessity  of  restraint ;  and,  in  the  great  glory  of  unfettered 
intelligence,  humanity  attains  the  summit  of  that  emi- 
nence, at  the  foot  of  which,  in  ages  far  away,  was  brought 
forth  the  product  of  the  Simian  monster,  Man. 

Two  schemes  of  evolution. 

A  spirit,  moving,  in  the  mystery  of  life,  through  all  forms 
till  it  attains  to  full  consciousness  of  its  divinity. 

A  monster,  all-contained  in  form,  marching  from  un- 
thinking brutality  to  unscrupulous  intelligence. 


PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS  373 

In  the  one  conception  mind  is  the  master  of  the  body :  in 
the  other,  its  servant. 

In  the  one,  man  fights,  in  his  advance,  cowardice,  cruelty, 
selfishness.  In  the  other,  pity,  mercy,  love,  are  the  barriers 
to  man's  progress. 


CHAPTER  LIV 

EDGAR  HALL,  driving  home  that  night,  passed  not 
far  from  the  street  where  long  ago  Percy  Burdon  had 
lived;  where  Cameron  still  lived;  where,  had  Hall  but 
known  it,  Cameron  and  Judith,  David  and  Gale  were  at 
that  moment  gathered  together. 

Had  he  known,  the  knowledge  certainly  would  have  ex- 
cited in  him  no  interest;  these  people,  companions  of  his 
chrysalis  stage,  were  no  longer  real  to  him ;  grubs  still,  they 
had  no  part  in  his  life  of  splendid  flight.  Yet  the  familiar 
landmarks  called  up  to  him  a  picture  of  Burdon's  room; 
with  its  photographs  of  girls  in  tights  on  the  mantelpiece ; 
its  antimacassars  that  took  the  place  of  repartee;  and  Gale 
— Gale  would  not  stay  out  of  the  picture — shaking  out  his 
hair  and  laughing  his  uproarious  laugh.  What  a  fool  the 
fellow  had  been !  What  a  fool !  And  that  wife  of  his,  who 
might  have  been  his  own  wife,  a  reigning  power  in  the 
Parisian  world  of  intellect !  Hall  had  no  sentiment  left  for 
David.  She  had  shown  herself  unworthy  of  his  preference ; 
he  despised,  but  did  not  regret  her. 

The  "grubs"  in  Cameron's  room  were  thinking  even  less 
of  Hall  than  Hall  was  thinking  of  them.  They  were  busy, 
while  the  mental  picture  in  which  two  of  them  figured 
was  passing  through  Hall's  mind,  in  discussing  the  pros- 
pects of  the  hospital  on  whose  staff  Gale  had  now  a  place. 
A  hospital  formed  on  anti-vivisectional  lines  it  was,  using 
no  vivisectional  remedies,  permitting  no  experimental  sur- 

374 


PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS  375 

gery;  the  operations  performed  in  it  were  never  performed 
without  the  consent  of  the  patients  or  the  patients'  friends. 
The  efforts  of  several  pioneers  had  resulted  in  the  enterprise 
of  starting  it ;  a  few  men,  risking  their  practices  in  favour 
of  their  principles,  had  supported  the  enterprise  with  all 
they  had  to  give;  skill,  time,  names,  energy.  It  was  es- 
tablished, and  was  fighting  its  way  against  prejudice  and 
contempt.  Scouted  by  the  profession,  excluded  from  par- 
ticipation in  publicly  collected  funds,  its  methods  were  de- 
nounced, its  efficiency  questioned.  Yet  it  endured.  The 
poor  who  dwelt  about  and  around  it  sought  its  aid  year  by 
year  in  increasing  numbers ;  its  death  rate  was  low ;  its  sup- 
porters were  staunch.  A  sign  of  the  times,  its  significance 
was  underrated  by  its  traducers ;  a  prophet,  it  was  labelled, 
in  its  native  land  of  medicine,  with  the  time-worn  title  of 
impostor. 

To  Gale  it  was  a  new  and  unfailing  interest  in  his  busy 
life ;  a  life  in  which  he  became,  with  each  succeeding  year, 
more  settled  and  content.  The  desire  for  fame  had  ceased 
to  torment  him.  All  his  energy  was  given  to  helping  on 
the  causes  for  which  he  worked;  the  protection  of  the 
animal  world,  and  the  relief  of  those  vast  masses  of  the 
poor  who  are  hardly  more  articulate  than  animals,  and 
almost  as  helpless. 

To  Gale,  as  to  Cameron,  the  two  causes  were  almost  in- 
separable. Experiment  in  the  one  world  led  to  experiment 
in  the  other  was  the  premise  which  experience  laid  down ; 
and  it  became  all  too  patent  to  Gale  that  mercy,  sympathy, 
honour,  banished  from  man's  dealings  with  the  brute  cre- 
ation, found  scant  asylum  in  his  dealings  with  the  defence- 
less of  his  own  race. 

The  hospital  was  not  the  only  subject  of  discussion  that 
evening  of  Hall's  last  lecture. 


376  PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS 

"And  the  League?"  said  Gale,  looking  across  to  where 
Judith  Home  walked,  with  her  hands  behind  her,  to  and 
fro  past  the  windows. 

Those  windows  were  open,  and  the  May  air,  soft  but  way- 
ward, stirred  her  hair  as  she  went.  The  hair  was  nearly 
white  now,  and  the  face  beneath  it  showed  that  Judy  had 
left  the  youth,  which  had  stayed  with  her  so  long,  behind 
her  on  the  road  of  life.  But  she  was  upright  as  she  had 
ever  been;  and  it  was  still  her  habit  to  walk,  with  hands 
clasped  behind  her,  as  she  had  walked  in  her  younger  days, 
when  talking  of  things  that  interested  and  moved  her.  She 
was  interested  now;  moved,  too,  by  an  influx  of  hope,  a 
vision  of  success. 

"In  a  year,"  she  said,  "the  League  will  be  started,  I 
promise  you.  In  all  the  countries  I  have  been  to,  there  are 
men  and  women,  medical  men  and  women,  waiting  and 
eager  to  join  it.  There's  a  lot  of  organising  to  be  done  still, 
of  course,  a  lot  of  rebuffing  to  be  gone  through,  a  number 
of  tiresome  people — people  are  so  often  tiresome,  even  when 
they're  quite  intelligent  and  positively  humane — to  be 
shaken  into  shape  and  cajoled  into  action.  Still,  you'll  see ; 
next  year  I'll  start  the  League." 

"Good  luck  to  it!"  said  Gale.  "And  to  herself  that's 
had  the  pluck  to  form  it." 

"Herself  must  go  home  now." 

"Will  you  have  a  cab  ?"  Cameron  asked. 

"No,  thank  you.  There's  a  young  man  of  the  name  of 
Guppy  will  see  me  through  the  streets.  Gupp,  come  here !" 

"  Did  you  take  the  name  from  Bleak  House  ?"  said  Gale, 
as  a  sheep  dog  rose  from  a  corner  of  the  room,  shook  him- 
self, and  came  in  a  trot  across  the  floor. 

"Of  course." 

The  dogs  of  Lapelliere  days  had  passed,  in  the  peace  of 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS  377 

old  ago,  from  the  lap  of  life ;  Guppy  was  a  young  dog,  wide 
of  head,  cobby  of  body,  showing  all  the  points  of  a  first-rate 
speciment  of  his  breed;  his  eyes,  deep  brown  and  very 
bright,  looked  up  at  Judy  with  the  unfaltering  trust  and 
loyalty  which  is  the  essence  of  dog  nature.  Judy,  not 
having  a  scientific  mind,  would  have  died  rather  than  betray 
that  trust ;  for  in  Judy's  estimation  there  were  many  things 
worse  than  death.  Betrayal  was  one  of  these  things,  even 
though  the  betrayed  were  infinitely  weaker,  immeasurably 
less  intelligent  than  the  betrayer.  She  had  a  code  of  honour 
in  which  helplessness  demanded  protection  rather  than 
abuse;  a  code  ol  courage  which  shrank  from  cruelty  more 
than  from  pain,  which  feared  meanness  more  than  death. 

She  and  Guppy  went  together  through  the  evening 
streets.  Each  was  the  protector  of  the  other;  between 
them  was  a  comprehending  companionship;  in  neither  was 
the  fear  of  death. 

The  next  morning  in  all  the  papers  was  an  account  of 
Hall's  ovation.  Cameron  read  it  and  said  nothing,  since 
there  was  nobody  at  hand  to  speak  to. 

Judy  read  it,  and  remarked  to  Guppy:  "To  every  king, 
praise  from  his  own  subjects." 

David  read  it  aloud  to  Gale  while  Gale  ate  his  breakfast. 
"You  might  have  been  a  famous  man,"  she  said,  "if " 

"And  you  might  certainly  have  been  a  famous  man's 
wife,  if » 

"Would  you  change?"  asked  David. 

"Would  you?" 

Neither  of  them  answered  the  questions  in  words;  but 
they  looked  into  each  other's  eyes  and  smiled. 


CHAPTER  LV 

JUDY  kept  her  promise.  In  the  year  after  Edgar  Hall's 
Harben  Lectures,  her  league  was  formed;  an  associa- 
tion, medical,  international,  to  combat  vivisection. 

The  day  when  it  held  its  first  meeting  was  a  red-letter 
day  to  Judy,  and  to  that  small  company  of  men  and  women 
who,  working  in  the  cause  of  humaneness,  are  persuaded 
that  they  are  working  also  in  that  of  humanity.  The  com- 
pany is  small  compared  with  the  numbers  of  those  who  are 
actively  hostile  or  selfishly  indifferent:  yet  it  grows. 

Side  by  side  with  what  is  called,  by  a  certain  school  of 
scientists,  the  scientific  spirit,  there  is  rising,  spreading, 
strengthening,  a  spirit  which  questions  the  science  of  that 
school ;  which  perceives  in  the  existence  of  love  the  manifes- 
tation of  a  law ;  which  discerns  in  man  finer  elements  than 
those  concerned  with  the  preservation  of  his  body.  And 
this  spirit  brings  recruits  to  the  ranks  of  the  growing  com- 
pany. 

In  these  ranks  fight  many  of  the  foolish  of  the  world, 
many  of  the  odd,  the  eccentric,  the  peculiar;  together  with 
men  keen  of  perception,  robust  of  intelligence,  vigorous  of 
act.  And  now  and  again,  and  ever  more  frequently,  men 
detach  themselves  from  the  hostile  camp  or  the  huge  army 
of  the  unthinking,  and  join  the  growing  company.  Now  it 
is  a  man  of  concrete  creed,  who  becomes  all  at  once  aware 
that  the  God  he  imagined  he  was  worshipping  is  actually 
and  in  truth  a  God  of  love,  anil  that  love  allows  no  limits 

878 


PRIESTS   OF   PROGRESS  379 

to  its  action ;  now  it  is  a  specialist  in  disease,  who  has  given 
his  life  to  the  study  of  a  particular  malady  and  finds  that 
laboratory  methods  lead  to  false  conclusions;  and  again,  it 
is  a  thinker  whose  thought  forbids  him  to  accept  the  dogma 
of  dead  matter  and  brute  force.  Braving  scorn,  risking 
•failure,  impelled  by  a  power  of  reason  or  of  right,  in  ones 
and  twos  these  leave  the  dominated  many  or  the  ruling  few, 
and  join  the  growing  company. 

The  company  grows  with  a  growth  unperceived  of  its 
opponents.  Its  cause  is  labelled  lost,  its  vitality  denied,  its 
progress  unnoted.  Yet  its  numbers  increase,  its  influence 
spreads;  in  all  parts  of  the  world  signs  of  the  spirit  that 
animates  it  spring  up.  Time,  that  instrument  of  evolution, 
can  but  aid  it,  since  this  spirit  of  a  wider  love,  a  deeper 
consciousness,  a  subtler  perception  of  the  unity  of  mani- 
fested existence,  is  not  the  lingering  remains  of  a  dying 
sentiment,  but  the  latest  unfolding  of  man's  possibilities. 
The  narrow  view  is  constantly  false;  the  gaze  fixed  on  the 
powers  that  be  misses  not  seldom  the  advent  of  forces  that 
are  yet  to  come;  it  is  on  the  horizon  that  the  sun  first 
shows  itself. 

The  company  grows,  though  of  visible  results  the  harvest 
still  is  small. 

"For  while  the  tired  waves,  vainly  breaking, 

Seem  here  no  painful  inch  to  gain, 
Far  back,  through  creeks  and  inlets  making, 
Comes  silent,  flooding  in,  the  main. 

And  not  by  eastern  windows  only 

When  daylight  comes,  comes  in  the  light, 

In  front  the  sun  climbs  slow — how  slowly ! 
But  westward,  look !  the  land  is  bright." 


APPENDIX 

1.  It  was  reported  in  the  Daily  News  of  the  29fh  May, 
]  906,  that  a  dog  did  seek  refuge  in  the  way  described,  but 
it  was  given  back  to  a  doctor  who  came  in  search  of  it. 

2.  The  operation  described  in  Chapter  VI  actually  oc- 
curred.   The  author  was  informed  of  it  by  a  doctor  whose 
friend,  a  surgeon,  witnessed  it. 

3.  The  operation  described  in  Chapter  XV  was  per- 
formed on  the  sister  of  an  intimate  friend  of  the  author's. 

4.  Medical  Priestcraft,  by  John  Shaw,  M.D.,  p.  161. 

5.  Morning  Leader,  26th  January,  1899. 

6.  Bulletin  of  the  Johns  Hopkins  Hospital  for  July, 
1897. 

7.  Bill  introduced  2nd  March,  1900. 

8.  Boston  Medical  and  Surgical  Journal,  6th  and  13th 
of  August,  1896. 

9.  New  York  Medical  Record  of  the  10th  September, 
1892. 

10.  British  Medical  Journal  of  the  3rd  July,  1897. 

11.  Deutsche  Medinische  Wochcnschrift  of  the  19th  Feb- 
ruary, 1891. 

12.  New  YorTc  Independent  of  the  12th  September,  1895. 

13.  Dr.  Herbert  Snow,  who  was  for  twenty  years  surgeon 
at  the  Brompton  Cancer  Hospital,  has  read  and  approved 
this  passage. 

14.  Dr.  John  Shaw  in  Medical  Priestcraft,  p.  131.    Dr. 
Eder  in  New  Age  of  18th  April,  1908.    The  author  heard 

381 


PRIESTS    OF    PROGRESS 

an  eminent  surgeon  state  at  a  public  dinner  that  a  medical 
man  who  was  an  anti-vivisectionist  must  be  either  a  knave 
or  a  fool. 

15.  The  theory  in  this  chapter  that  the  destiny  of  man  is 
to  fight  against  Nature's  rule  instead  of  being  guided  by 
it  is  taken  from  The  Kingdom  of  Man,  by  Professor  Sir 
E.  Ray  Lankester,  K.C.B. 

16.  Revue  Scientifique  of  the  24th  of  March,  1906.  Title 
of  article,  "La  Valeur  de  1 'experimentation  sur  Fhomme  en 
pathologie  experimentale." 

17.  The  Times  of  the  27th  June,  1891 ;  British  Medical 
Journal  of  the  29th  August,  1891. 

18.  Deutsche  Medinische  Wochenschrift  of  the  19th  Feb- 
ruary, 1891. 

19.  Therapeutics,  by  Sidney  Ringer,  pp.  498-503  (Eighth 
Edition). 

20.  Told    to    the    author    by    a    distinguished    French 
physician. 

21.  Experiments  on  Animals,  by  Stephen  Paget. 

22.  Revue  Scientifique  of  the  24th  March,  1906. 

23.  The  Medical  Press  and  Circular  of  the  29th  March, 
1899. 

24.  Text  Book  of  Pharmacology  and  Therapeutics,  or  the 
Action  of  Drugs  in  Health  and  Disease  (Fourth  Edition, 
1906),  by  Professor  Cushny,  pp.  189-208.    Surgical  Dis- 
eases of  the  Dog  and  Cat,  by  Professor  Hobday. 

25.  The  experiment  described  in  this  chapter  is  taken 
from  an  article  which  appeared  in  the  British  Medical 
Journal  of  the  4th  November,  1906. 

26".  The  author  was  told  of  these  sounds  by  friends  who 
lived  near  a  large  hospital. 

27.  Article  in  the  British  Medical  Journal,  cited  in  25 
supra. 


APPENDIX  383 

28.  Life  of  Claude  Bernard,  by  Sir  Michael  Foster,  p.  204. 

29.  Therapeutics,  by  Sidney  Ringer  (Eighth  Edition), 
pp.  585,  588,  590,  591. 

30.  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes  of  the  5th  February,  1883. 

31.  An  Experimental  Research  into  Surgical  Shock,  by 
George  W.  Crile,  A.M.,  M.D.,  PH.D.    If  it  is  objected  that  Dr. 
Crile  is  an  American  and  that  experiments  of  this  kind  are 
not  and  cannot  be  carried  out  in  England,  I  would  mention 
that  Dr.  Crile  himself  informs  us  that  the  first  sixteen  of 
them  were  performed  in  Sir  Victor  Horsley's  Laboratory 
in  London  University  College.    It  is  worthy  of  note  that 
this  book  earned  for  its  author  the  Cartwright  Prize,  and 
also  that,  as  I  was  informed  at  the  London  office  of  the 
publishers,  it  has  sold  better  than  any  other  of  his  works. 
(G.  Colmore.), 

32.  Pasteurism  in  India,  by  Sir  James  Thornton,  K.C.B.  ; 
"Pasteur's  Prophylactic,"  an  article  by  Dr.   Chas.  Bell 
Taylor,  M.D.,  which  appeared  in  the  National  Review  of 
July,  1890;  Pasteur  and  Serotherapy,  by  Dr.  A.  Lutand, 
editor  in  chief  of  the  Journal  de  Medicine  de  Paris. 

33.  Pasteurism  in  India,  cited  32  supra. 

34.  Report  of  the  Metropolitan  Asylums  Board,  1905. 

35.  The  debate  described  in  this  and  the  preceding  chap- 
ter is  an  actual  debate  which  took  place  on  the  6th  of  May, 
1907,  at  the  Portman  Rooms,  at  which  the  author  was 
present.     A  verbatim  report  can  be  obtained  from  Miss 
G.  M.  Ansell,  70  Chancery  Lane,  W.C. 

36.  The  book  here  referred  to  is  The  Nature  of  Man,  by 
E.  Metchnikoff,  and  reviews  given  are  quoted  from  extracts 
from  The  Times  and  the  Lancet,  printed  on  the  fly-leaves  of 
the  English  edition  of  1906. 

37.  Report  of  the  most  recent  Royal   Commission  on 
.Vivisection.    Question  3737. 


384  PRIESTS    OF   PROGRESS 

38.  Letter  to  the  Standard  of  the  24th  November,  1883, 
entitled  "The  Use  of  Hospital  Patients,"  by  Dr.  de  Watte- 
ville. 

39.  British  Medical  Journal  of  the  29th  August,  1891. 

40.  Confessions  of  a  Physician,  by  Smidovich,  p.  152. 

41.  Report  of  Royal  Commission  on  Vivisection,  1875, 
pp.  64  and  223. 

42.  For  an  account  of  Serumelweiss's  work?,  see  Experi- 
ments on  Animals,  by  Stephen  Paget  (Third  Edition),  pp. 
80-83.    Dr.  Paget  is,  of  course,  not  responsible  for  the  use 
which  Cameron  makes  of  the  facts. 

43.  Article  by  Dr.  Karl  Snyder  which  appeared  in  the 
Monthly  Review  of  September,  1906. 

44.  The  main  points  of  Hall's  lecture  are  taken  from  the 
report  of  the  Third  Harben  Lecture  which  appeared  in 
the  Journal  of  Preventive  Medicine  of  August,  1906.    This 
lecture  was  delivered  at  Bang's  College,  London,  by  Pro- 
fessor MetchnikofL 


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